


Sansûkh

by determamfidd



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, As canon as it gets, Dead peanut gallery, Death is only the beginning, F/F, F/M, Gratuitous Khuzdul for the win, M/M, Neurodiversity, Oh my god so much angst, SO MUCH RESEARCH OH GOD, Safe for Dain Fans :), Slow Build, but there will be a happy ending, everyone's dead but they're all still hanging around, gimli is a BAMF, like glacial, things are going to get worse before they get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 533,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=3473168#t3473168">a Hobbitkink prompt:</a></p><p>The battle was over, and Thorin Oakenshield awoke, naked and shivering, in the Halls of his Ancestors. </p><p>The novelty of being dead fades quickly, and watching over his companions soon fills him with grief and guilt. Oddly, a faint flicker of hope arises in the form of his youngest kinsman, a Dwarf of Durin's line with bright red hair. </p><p>(Follows the story of the War of the Ring).</p><p> </p><p>  <i>(Bagginshield, Gimli/Legolas) In which recovery takes time, the dead members of the Company take to watching Gimli as though he’s a soap opera, the living struggle with being left behind, Legolas is confused, Khuzdul is abused, and Thorin is four feet and ten inches of guilt and anger.</i></p><p>~**~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Sansûkh - 【中文翻译】真知灼见](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629268) by [Eusta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eusta/pseuds/Eusta), [rockweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockweed/pseuds/rockweed)
  * Translation into Français available: [Sansûkh - Traduction française](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122001) by [MagicRedhead (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MagicRedhead)
  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Sansûkh - Português Brasileiro](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4492398) by [flyingcircusss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcircusss/pseuds/flyingcircusss)
  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Sansûkh - Deutsche Übersetzung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581486) by [Croliv_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croliv_writes/pseuds/Croliv_writes)
  * Translation into English available: [Khuzdul/Dwarvish Translations of Poems and Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004699) by [ElladPlyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElladPlyr/pseuds/ElladPlyr)
  * Translation into English available: [Khuzdul/Dwarvish Translations of Poems and Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6004699) by [ElladPlyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElladPlyr/pseuds/ElladPlyr)



> _Hi all! Me with another kinkmeme prompt - and as with 'Irreconcilable Differences' it looks like it's going to be a MONSTER._
> 
>  
> 
> _The prompt is:_
> 
> So why was Gimli the dwarf chosen to attend the Council of Elrond? Well, I'd like to think it was because someone pushed him to do so and things went from there. But who? Why, the dead members of Thorin Oakenshield's Company, of course!  
> Their ghosts/spirits/visions/phantoms have been attached to Gimli (maybe he sees them in his dreams) since they got word that Frodo, the cute little nephew/cousin of their own Bilbo, was going to end up on the quest to destroy the Ring. How do dead dwarves find this out? Maybe Aule tells them in the afterlife, I don't know, but they find out and boy are they mad/worried/etc!  
> So as a favor to their still living Hobbit burglar, they vow to protect Frodo anyway they can, which ends up being through Gimli. Unfortunately though no fault of Gimli's own, he's not with the young hobbit as much as his Elders would like, which in turn makes them very irritable and annoying for as long as hobbit and dwarf are separated.  
> So yeah. Overprotective!Oakenshield Company haunting Gimli to ensure Frodo's safety.  
> Bonus points for:  
> +The members (probably Fili and Kili tbh) occasionaly gushing over Frodo  
> +The Company's reaction when they realize what Bilbo had picked up on their journey (the ring)  
> +Ori chiming in: "Oh look! There's me! Look everyone! I make a good skeleton, don't I?" when they visit the Mines of Moria  
> +1000 for Gimli/Legolas and the Company being outraged and shocked and confused and HE'S AN ELF, GIMLI. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING NOOOOOO
> 
>   _So, me being me, it naturally became a giant thing with masses of angst and research and canon and Dwarven history and whoa. Pairings will be Legolas/Gimli and Bilbo/Thorin. There are going to be a LOT of angst and feels before things get better, but I promise we will have a happy ending. I like happy endings :)_
> 
>  _If you would like to hit me up for further fandom flailings and general ridiculousness, I have[a tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/)_. 
> 
> _Without further babble, I very much hope you enjoy._
> 
> * * *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Hover your cursor over text for Khuzdul or Sindarin translation!**

  


_By[FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/68908282113/sansukh-by-yorikosakakibara-sooo-i-posts-this-a) ([YorikoSakakibara](http://th01.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2013/336/c/a/sansukh_by_yorikosakakibara-d6wdgsb.jpg))_

* * *

  


_By[a-sirens-lullaby](http://a-sirens-lullaby.tumblr.com/post/76190764386/sansukh-by-determamfidd-the-battle-was-over-and)_

* * *

**_****_**

**_**Sansûkh**_**

 ****

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, came awake with a sudden start and a strangled shout of alarm. It was utterly dark, and his shout echoed in the stifling blackness. He tried to blink his eyes, and found it made little difference.

"Peace, Child of Durin," said a voice, and he gritted his teeth.

"What is this place?" he asked, and the voice chuckled.

Where was the Hobbit? Where was the frozen lake? Last he recalled, he had been bleeding to death at the edges of the silent battlefield. His madness had passed, but it had exacted too high a price. His family was spent and gone, his nephews cold and stiffened in death and rent with many wounds. Their soft-handed and great-hearted Burglar had forgiven him, even as he wept over Thorin's broken body.

He did not deserve such forgiveness.

"You have come to a place of rest, Thorin son of Thráin," said the voice, and Thorin blinked furiously, trying to make out the voice's owner in the gloom. His excellent Dwarven dark- vision did not seem to be working, and he began to push himself up onto his elbows. He was unclad, and his skin shivered and prickled in the icy darkness.

"Explain," he snarled. "And show yourself!"

"Patience," the voice chided. It did not sound angry at Thorin's disrespect. Rather, it sounded fond, even fatherly. "Do calm yourself. Your sight will return."

"Where am I?"

"As I said, you are come to a place of rest. Here you may finally find peace."

"Peace? There shall be no peace in me until I have your answer!" Thorin growled. He was tiring of these riddles. "Speak plainly! Where am I? I was last upon the withered heath before the gates of Erebor. Have you moved me? What have you done to steal the light from my eyes?"

"Perhaps I erred when I made you so hasty," mused the voice. "I say again: Calm yourself! I will not repeat it another time - three times is quite enough. And you are old enough to think better of asking such foolish questions, unlike your chattering nephews. However did you manage to control that temper of yours? They are nearly as curious as Hobbits, and that is no understatement."

"There is a trick to it," Thorin said as a strange and horrible suspicion began to dawn. "You listen for the words they do not say. Those are the important ones."

"Ah. Naturally."

Thorin steeled himself, and then asked, "Am I dead?"

There was a pause, and then the voice said, not unkindly, "Yes."

His ribs clenched tightly around his heart, and Thorin's head dropped against his chest as he murmured, "I am in the Halls of my Forefathers."

"Yes."

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut. Of course, they couldn't possibly be his eyes, not really. This was not his hand, clenched into a shaking fist by his side. The heart hammering fit to break his chest apart was not his own. This was a body remade, renewed and purged of all its mortal flaws and weakness. No wonder he could not see – his eyes had never been used before.

Here he would wait until the Breaking of the World, when the Dwarves would rebuild Arda Marred and restore her to her full glory. Here he would grieve for his sister and cousins, left behind to deal with the results of his madness and pride. Here he would bow under the weight of his shame, knowing he had stolen his nephews' bright young lives before they had even seen a century. Here he would break beneath the guilt of what he had done to a cheerful, peaceful, gentle creature who had only ever sought to help him.

"Are you my Maker?" he eventually croaked.

The vast presence moved closer, and he shuddered as the power within it stroked at his mind and brushed over his new skin. "I am."

Thorin opened his new, useless eyes and glared into the darkness. "Then why, may I ask, did you make me so flawed?"

The voice was silent.

The anger flickered and then caught alight in Thorin's breast, and he pushed himself up onto new and shaking legs, weak as a newborn deer's. Thrusting his jaw blindly before him, he flung his shame and grief and rage into the darkness. "Why my damnable pride? Why my temper, my resentment - why my foolish stubborn _arrogance!_ Why the madness that plagues our Line? Why did all I do, all I hoped, turn to ash before I had even grasped it? Why did my family break, time and time again?"

The mighty Vala of Stone and Craft was silent.

"Tell me!" Thorin roared.

"You forget yourself, King Under the Mountain," said the voice, and it sounded sad rather than angry. "My work was not flawed. You were made strong and hardy and slow to change, loyal in friendship and long in enmity. Crafts of all kinds come easily to your hands, and you can feel the earth beneath you and hear her songs, can you not?"

Thorin's fingernails dug into the soft new skin of his palms. "You know I can."

"That is how I made you," said the voice of his great Maker. "And that cannot be altered. Rather, it is the work of the Enemy that mars all it touches."

Thorin frowned. "What Enemy? Mordor was destroyed by the Last Alliance in the days of Durin the Fourth, and no great power save the dragons has arisen since."

The voice was silent for a moment more, as though he was struggling with some old and terrible injury. "You recall your father's ring?"

Thorin blinked. "Aye, the Ring of Power. Yes?"

"There were seven of them once. Four were swallowed up by the Firedrakes. But three, including your father's, made their way back to their original smith."

Thorin scowled. "I do not understand."

"You will." The voice – Mahal – was filled with ancient melancholy. "I made you strong to endure, my child. And you have. Against all the works of the great Evil, the Dwarves never capitulated and ever remained their own masters. No Dwarf ever became a wraith. No Dwarf ever lost his will to the Shadow. But the Enemy is ever wily and cunning; he finds other ways to work his will. And so the seven rings worked in other ways, unseen ways, upon my children. Thus over the long, long years the love of craft and beauty that I gave you was slowly twisted into a desire for jewels and metal."

"I never wore that ring," said Thorin.

"But your father did. And his father before him, and his father before him, from the day Celebrimbor gave the ring to Durin in his third life onwards," said the deep, sorrowful voice. "I watched your line slowly drift under its spell, and I grieved. The descendants of the first of my children, the greatest of my seven sons, strong and enduring and steadfast – and yet the Enemy had touched you after all."

"I never," Thorin repeated through gritted teeth, "wore that ring. My madness was my own."

"Was it?" asked the voice gently. "The ring aside, do not forget: gold that a dragon has slept on has a power of its own. The great Worms were created in ancient times by an even blacker and more powerful evil. They were made to be the downfall of the Dwarves, and so they remain your greatest challenge."

Thorin was silent for a moment, and then he raised his head slightly. "My father's ring was but a ring, and the dragon but a dragon. Why then did I lose myself at the very moment I should have been strongest?"

Mahal sighed. "These are secrets long hidden, soon to come to light. You will understand soon enough. Let go of your anger and shame, Thorin son of Thráin. There are many here who love you."

Thorin's throat snapped closed, and his teeth ground together almost painfully. "Will you not explain?"

"It is too close to me, my son," said Mahal, and the fatherly, powerful voice moved away into the crushing darkness. Sorrow echoed in the stones as he spoke. "One who was dear to me betrayed me utterly, and all his works are now turned to darkness and deceit. I cannot speak of it."

A flash of insight came to him, and Thorin said aloud, "the one who made the Seven?"

"Aye," Mahal said, and his soft laughter trembled in the air like distant rumbling thunder. "Thank Eru I made you sharp. Put aside all your self-recrimination. It has no place here. Your sickness was not of your choice, nor even of my design. It is done now."

"It will never be done," Thorin said coldly, even as his insides twisted and twisted again. "Not until I have made my amends."

"What use are amends in the House of the Dead? Greet your loved ones, and wait for the renewal of all things. Your travels and hardships are done, and your homeland restored. You died well, my child."

"I lived less well. And amends are not of _use_ ," Thorin spat. "That is not the point of them!"

"True!" Mahal laughed again. "Very true!" The mighty Vala fell quiet for a moment in thought, and Thorin breathed harshly with the force of his anger. Then Mahal spoke, and his voice shook with power:

"Very well then. For the love I bear you and for the woe the Shadow has wrought in you, I shall give you the means to make your amends."

Thorin's heart leapt into his throat.

A strange blossoming warmth began to suffuse Thorin's chest, filling him with fire unquenchable as Mahal continued to speak. "All my children may see their kin and friends yet surviving in the lands of the mortals beyond the mists. I will give you the power to reach them."

"Reach them?" Thorin took one blind step forward, a hand pressed to where that strange fire burned above his hammering heart. "You mean, I may speak to them? Truly?"

"No, that you may not. I cannot take back the Gift of Ilúvatar once given. You may not pass through the mists to touch the living."

"Not even to beg for their forgiveness?" Thorin asked with a certain sinking hopelessness, knowing the answer already.

A huge hard hand, gnarled with work, gently laid itself on Thorin's shoulder, and he shuddered uncontrollably at the sensation. His maker's hand – such power, and such love in that touch. "I am sorry you cannot let go of your grief, my child."

"You also made me stubborn, if you recall," Thorin retorted to cover his trembling awe, and Mahal's smile could be felt in the silent thunder of the air.

"Aye, that I did." The hand let go, and Thorin swayed slightly, drunk with wonderment and sorrow and dread.

"But," the Lord of Craft and Stone added, "you will be able to reach their deepest mind. The mind beneath the waking thoughts, the subconscious flow of their selves – _that_ you may touch."

Thorin let out a long breath filled with bitterness. The sleeping mind, the subconscious. That was not ideal. But better than nothing.

"Now, there are some here who have waited eagerly to meet with you."

"Fíli? Kíli?" The shame was a noose around his throat, and Thorin's new-made eyes smarted with sudden unshed tears.

"Amongst others who have waited far longer," said the Vala. "Be well, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. I will meet with you again."

And then the overwhelming sense of his presence was gone.

The darkness pressed in on him, and Thorin took another hesitant step forward. There was good stone beneath his bare feet, and the slap of his soles against it echoed through the nothingness.

"Fíli?" he tried. "Kíli?"

The darkness and silence was absolute but for the rasp of his breath in his lungs. Thorin took another step, and another.

Then young excited voices were echoing through the darkness towards him. Thorin managed a laugh that was part-sob.

"Uncle!"

"Everyone, this way! Found him, _finally,_ how many sepulchres are there in this place?"

"Mahal only knows. Actually, he probably does. We should ask."

"Thorin, you are _not_ going to believe it!"

"We met Durin! Actual Durin! He's here!"

" _Again_. Not a bad arrangement – get born, live, die, rest up a bit, and then have another shot at it in a couple of centuries' time."

"Speaking of, did you see that shot I made in the battle? Wasn't it _amazing?_ I bet it goes down in history. Even Bard couldn't better it! I'd like to see that blond Elven twit match _that."_

"Kíli," Thorin choked, and stumbled forward into the darkness. "Fíli..." Two bodies as familiar as his own hands barrelled into him and he clutched at them even as he stumbled backwards.

"Careful now," said a rough, beloved voice, and someone caught his elbow. "Father, get him some clothes, his eyes don't work yet."

"Ach, get 'em yerself, lazy sod." The voice of Thrór was as gruff as ever, and Thorin turned towards him, his sightless eyes wide.

"Grandfather, you're..."

"Aye," said the last true King Under the Mountain. "I'm here. Saw it got you too."

Thorin bowed his head over his nephews as hot humiliation raced over him. "Yes."

"Not your fault, lad," said the Dwarf holding his arm. "Not your fault. Not like you ask for these things to happen."

"Besides," said Thrór, and old shame tinted his voice as well, "you beat it in the end, didn't you? You died with your own mind. You were stronger than me."

"And me," soothed the Dwarf beside him, and the strong and so-familiar hand on his elbow tightened in reassurance.

"No, it wasn't me. It was..." Thorin wanted to protest, to speak of Bilbo, when the Dwarf holding his elbow cleared his throat and wrapped his other arm around Thorin's trembling shoulders.

"We saw, m'lad," he said gently. "We know."

The hand on his elbow was unblemished, new and unscarred, but it was unmistakable. Thorin grasped it tightly with his other hand, and the rumbling chuckle in his ear made his eyes sting. "Father," he said faintly. "Father, I'm so sorry. I abandoned you, 'adad. I thought you long dead..."

"Steady now, inùdoy," said Thráin gently. "Steady. Never mind me. You've had a hard road and a long one, but you've time to rest now."

His father. His great and splendid father, a Lord and Prince, who bore the tattoos of a warrior across his brow. His father – his head noble and proud and his beard long and fierce, his one good eye relentless and his hands like steel bands. His father – his poor, mad, half-blind father, trapped and starved and witless for nine long years in the dungeons of Dol Guldur.

"Rest," Thorin repeated in a strangled voice. "No, I don't..."

"Yes, you can," said his father. "Don't you think on it longer. I would have given me up as well. Let it go, my son. There's time to rest here. Time to heal."

"You did well, nidoyel," said Thrór. "You gave our people back our home. You gave them back their hope and their pride and their heritage. Not a bad legacy. Not a bad way to leave the world."

"I left them to deal with ages-old enmities, a home scattered with carrion, a cursed treasure and a dead King," Thorin said bitterly, and Thráin squeezed his arm sharply, his hands as rock-hard and as powerful as in Thorin's earliest memories.

"Do you forget all your lessons? We're not the only branch of our line. It's time to leave your burdens to others now."

"But..."

"Thorin," said Thráin, a smile colouring his voice. "Don't make me wroth with you. Here now, what's this? Tears, my son? Well, let them fall where they may! There is time for tears here, too."

"Are you maudlin old men quite finished?" snapped another. "Let me through, or I shall _make_ you and by Mahal you won't enjoy it!"

"Best move out of the way," Thrór muttered, and Thráin chuckled again.

"Aye, she won't be patient much longer."

"You mean she can be patient?"

"Don't insult my wife, you old coot."

"Stop nattering, you pair, and _move_. Oh, look at you," murmured the new voice, a soft, feminine voice, and Kíli yelped as he was pried from Thorin's grasp. "So much older. So much harder. Oh, my handsome lad. My brave, brave boy."

Thorin couldn't halt the cry that left him at the feel of the hand that came to rest on his face. The smell that enveloped him was as real and warm as the hand, and his whole soul cried out at it: the sweetness of the oils she used for her hair and beard, the sharp tang of copper and wood-smoke from her forge, the warm living scent of her skin. "Mother," he said, and he knew he was weeping openly. She wrapped him tightly in her embrace, and carded her hand through his hair.

"I'm very proud of you, my Thorin," she said in her low, strong voice, and he pressed into her hand as she held him close. "So very proud of you."

"By the way, Grandma is kind of terrifying," Kíli said, and then he yelped as the lady Frís, daughter of Aís, Princess Under the Mountain and wife of Thráin, presumably pinched him.

"Behave, young one," she said sternly, pulling back to stroke Thorin's face again and thread her fingers through his close-cropped beard. "I'll get to you two in a moment."

"Terrifying," said Fíli admiringly. "I kinda see where Mum gets it from, now."

"Our grumpy little Dís as a mother," said a young, laughing voice, a voice that rang like bells. "Let Middle-Earth tremble."

Thorin froze. Frís' hand gentled him, smoothing over his hair as though soothing a skittish pony.

"Aye, he's here," she murmured. "He's been insufferable, waiting for you all this time."

"I'm very cross with you, nadadel," said Frerin, Prince Under the Mountain. "You took your time. What, were you lost again? You made me wait one hundred and forty years. Have you any idea how rude that is?"

"Thorin, rude?" Fíli laughed. "Perish the thought."

Thorin couldn't speak. His mother's hand was on his face, his nephews clinging to his arms. His father was practically holding him up, his grandfather was patting his shoulder, and his brother's arm was carelessly slung around him. Frerin, _Frerin._

  
  
Frerin, by [Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/108320618165/heeeey-so-here-is-this-massively-messy-portrait)  
  


"You're blubbing," said Frerin with a tender sort of mischievousness. "My perfect big brother, blubbing. Like a big mopey Elf. Did you mess up your hair? Did somebody break a twig?"

"Shut up," Thorin choked, and Frerin threw back his head and laughed his silver laugh and oh, Thorin had missed him, missed him so much.

" _You_ shut up," he said gently, and then Frerin was pulling his braid and abruptly Thorin was struck with a memory so vivid that he reeled with the strength of it, sent back to a hazy, golden time when he was five years old and the new baby kept chewing and tugging at his hair.

"Frerin," he gasped, and his brother's warm hands were tugging at his braids, pulling him forward until their foreheads rested together. Frerin, the day to Thorin's night, so very young, so small, only forty-eight. His skin was unlined and Thorin's fingers traced his thick straight brows, his bladelike Durin nose, his merry eyes, his short full goatee braided upon his cheeks.

"You look old, brother," he said. "And tired."

"I am," Thorin sighed, allowing Frerin to take some of his weight from Thráin. "I am so tired. I thought I would have time, a few decades at least..."

"See, this is what happens when I'm not around to stop you from brooding," Frerin said gently. "You turn into a mopey Elf. It's really rather pathetic."

Thorin grunted. Then he drew back his head and butted his brother sharply, and his mother's soft laughter rang out.

"Boys," she said, and that was the _exact_ same tone she had used when Thorin was only twenty and Frerin fifteen; two lads bickering instead of watching their six-year-old sister.

"Your head has gotten harder," grumbled Frerin.

"Or yours is softer," Thorin retorted, and an incredulous laugh bubbled out of Kíli.

"I'm dreaming, yes?" he asked of no-one in particular. "Thorin doesn't _tease._ He got brought back wrong. Mahal made a mistake."

"Oh, you think you two were bad?" said Thrór archly. "These two had you beaten."

"Why do you think he already knew most of your tricks?" added Frerin. "We thought up that stuff a century before you two."

"It was always your idea," Thorin muttered.

"And you always led the way," Frerin said, and nudged him. "Such a dutiful Prince!"

Kíli wailed aloud, and Thorin could just picture the look of betrayal on his face. "Everything I knew is _wrong,"_ he moaned.

Thorin smiled through his tears and Fíli chuffed a laugh. "Poor Kíli. He's pulling at his hair again."

"Tell him to stop. He doesn't have hair enough to spare," Thorin said, and Kíli's outraged yelp made him smile all the harder.

"You look dreadful," said Frerin conversationally. "All covered in tears and red-faced and your braids coming undone."

"And whose fault is that?" Thorin immediately retorted, and felt rather than saw Frerin's grin.

"I have a bone to pick with you," said Fíli into his ear. "Why didn't you or Mum ever tell me I looked like your mother and brother? I always thought I was the odd one out!"

"In this family?" Frís snorted. "When it comes to _odd_ , we are rather spoiled for choice."

"Dear," said Thráin, rather stiffly. "Not in front of the grandchildren."

"Loss of respect comes with the territory," said Thrór. "Get used to it. Thráin, nidoy, where's your mother?"

"Keeping the rest away. She didn't want to overwhelm him all at once."

"You weren't so nice to us," accused Fíli. "Mobbed us, you did! I thought we were under attack at first! I punched my own father on the nose!"

That surprised a true laugh out of Thorin, thought it hurt his chest. "You hit Víli?" he said.

"He did. And I stamped on Grandfather's foot," said Kíli.

Thráin cleared his throat. "And bit my hand," he added sternly.

"Well, you try being blind as a bat and naked as a mole and having your dead grandfather commenting on your lack of beard, see how _you_ like it," Kíli grumbled.

Thráin huffed out a laugh, and Thrór made a long-suffering noise that Thorin vaguely recalled from long dreary Council meetings in which Fundin never seemed to shut up. "You didn't know any of us, great-grandson," the King said patiently. "Not outside of stories. But our Thorin is going to meet with Dwarves he hasn't seen in centuries – his great-uncle, his cousins, his friends."

"It's usual to keep the first greetings to the immediate family," explained Frerin. "Otherwise it gets a bit overwhelming. Grandmother will be along in a moment."

Kíli made a grumble of assent that Thorin recognised as a grudging 'oh all _right'_. He reached out into the blackness, his hand stretching for his youngest nephew, and Kíli stepped back into his arms easily. "Kíli," said Thorin and stroked back Kíli's mad, snarled hair – unbraided as always – even as he pulled Fíli closer against him. The Dwarves in his arms were young and strong, tall and straight, even as he remembered them. Visions of their bloodless faces and their rent and broken bodies kept dancing before his mind's eye. A great stone lodged itself in his throat and made it hard to breathe. "Fíli. I'm so sorry," he whispered against the side of Fíli's head. "I'm so sorry, my boys. Forgive me, oh, my  nidoyîth. I wanted so much for you, undayûy. I wanted..."

"Oh, it's Thrór all over again, someone stop him," groaned Frís. "We're going to drown in the combined guilt of the Line of Durin before we ever lay a stone of Arda Remade."

"He's here now," said Frerin gently. "He'll heal."

"It'll take time," said Thrór, his tone sombre.

"It always does," sighed Thráin.

* * *

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All thanks go to the Dwarrow Scholar for their fantastic Khuzdul resources._
> 
>  
> 
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Nidoyith – Young boy  
> Nidoyîth – Young boys  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad - mother  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Seven Rings of the Dwarf-Lords - this is canon. Four of the Seven were destroyed in dragonfire. Three eventually made their way back to Sauron. The Dwarves themselves - hardy, enduring and slow to change - never succumbed to the power of the Rings to become Wraiths. Instead, the Rings only augmented the love of gold.  
>  _Please tell me what you think! Love to hear your thoughts. x_


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Oh._  
>     
> My.
> 
> GOD.
> 
> _Thank you so much for your reviews! I am completely thrilled that people are enjoying this. Tell me what you think! I am always up for nerding out and general Tolkien-flailing. If you'd like, you can also find me[on Tumblr](determamfidd.tumblr.com) :D _

He was wrapped in a soft shapeless robe and led to a smaller room. He could tell it was smaller from the sweet, tinkling echoes. It smelled like good deep rock. There was a bed.

He slept like the dead.

When he woke, his mother was there. He could barely make out her face through blurred vision, but her smile shone through his blindness and was just as glorious as it had ever been. Her soft wheat-gold hair still curled around her face, and her eyes were still exactly the same shape and colour as his own. He was glad – he had wondered if old, long-nursed grief had warped his memories. Frís helped him dress and took his hand, before leading him out into a great buttressed Hall and a dizzying array of Dwarves and heat and noise and laughter.

It took some getting used to.

Dwarrows centuries-dead greeted him, and as his sight returned he occasionally found himself brought up short by a familiar face or a vague family resemblance. Surely that was a Durin nose – surely those were the family ears! He walked around in a haze of recognition and bewilderment.

Thorin's grandmother, Queen Hrera, fussed and tutted over him more than she ever had as a young dwarfling. It took all his patience to refrain from reminding her that he was in fact older than her now, and had more white in his hair and beard than she had ever managed. Not that she would have listened, anyhow. The women of his family had always been even more mulish than the men. Fíli and Kíli smirked a lot whenever she managed to corral him and tweak his cheek.

He had his revenge when Hrera descended on them in turn and promptly began to plait Kíli's hair.

A Dwarf with a multitude of honey-coloured braids and a puckish, mischievous face came near, and Thorin's mouth opened on a soft intake of breath. Then he grabbed the Dwarf's shoulders and drew him into a rough embrace. "Víli."

His brother-in-law silently pressed their foreheads together. "Thank you for raising them," said Víli son of Vár. "Thank you for being there when I could not."

Thorin fumbled for Víli's hand and grasped it tightly. "They are the best of my life," he said, and Víli's eyebrows rose and the ghost of the impish grin that had captured Dís' heart passed over his lips.

[ ](http://a-sirens-lullaby.tumblr.com/post/76288510730/a-dwarf-with-a-multitude-of-honey-coloured-braids)

  


_Víli, by[a-sirens-lullaby](http://a-sirens-lullaby.tumblr.com/post/76288510730/a-dwarf-with-a-multitude-of-honey-coloured-braids)_

"Then maybe we should go and rescue them from Hrera."

Thorin looked back at the grouching Fíli and the moaning Kíli. "No. It's good for them."

Víli chuckled and folded his arms, watching his sons complain and grouse. His eyes were fond and his smile grew until it was the spitting image of the grin that Kíli had inherited. "So it is."

His grandfather's dear friend, the stoic and dependable Nár (who had braved Moria for love of Thrór), clasped Thorin's wrists and told him that he was a Dwarf amongst Dwarves, a hero of their people. His old Great-Uncle Grór, first Lord of the Iron Hills, slapped at his back and told him 'well done!" His Great-grandfather Dáin the first, slain by a cold-drake before Thorin's birth, grinned at him from ear to ear and pumped his hand until his fingers went numb.

His cousins Náin and Fundin, both Burned Dwarves of Azanulbizar, instantly crowded him with enthusiastic pleas for news of their sons. Though Mahal had mentioned that any Dwarf in the Halls could watch over their kin at any time, it appeared that the immediacy of his tales was greatly appreciated and sought after. Though it tore at his heart, Thorin told them all that he could remember. His old cousin Farin, father to Fundin and Gróin, was quiet and calm, a smile tugging at his lips as he listened to the stories of his four heroic grandsons of the Company – Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin.

Gróin was the worst of the lot, however. He was so proud of his grandson he was likely to explode, and asked Fíli and Kíli for any tales of their young playfellow at any and every opportunity. At these times, Thorin would take the opportunity to slip away and explore.

The Halls of Mahal were of sweet ringing rock, and the busy sounds of pickaxes and hammers tapped away at all hours. Though thousands upon thousands of Dwarves swarmed the Halls, none seemed crowded and each had room enough for their needs. It was all a mystery to Thorin. Where were the Halls located? Aman, yes, _obviously_ -but where? Were these great mines and workshops located in the Halls of Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar? Or did the Dwarves bide their long years of waiting within the mountains of Mahal, their maker?

And for that matter - whence came the wood for the forges? Where the cloth for the clothes? Where the food for the meals? No Dwarf could tell him, and most seemed grudgingly resigned to never knowing. Thorin's temperament was not well-suited to such mysteries, and he began to eye each meal suspiciously until his mother told him to stop it and eat.

As his strength and sight returned, great and wondrous things were revealed to him. There were graceful corridors of twisting stone carved into such intricate delicacy that they seemed made of snow or feathers, and yet they were harder than dragonscale and older than the foundations of Khazad-dûm. His father showed him vast vaulted halls, their ceilings covered in curling golden patterns and with pillars of purest white marble carved into ancient designs. Víli, Fíli and Kíli dragged him through crystal caves that shattered the darkness into dancing prisms of light at the merest flicker of a lamp. His grandmother showed him a cave where water dripped in a musical cascade like hundreds of tiny silver bells chiming at once. His mother took him to deep and velvet-dark mines that yielded the greenest emeralds he had ever seen and mithril like the pure bright soul of the earth, held in his cupped hand.

His brother dragged him through workshop after workshop, and Thorin had almost lost his composure at the cunningly wrought works of beauty and skill that flourished under the hands of the greatest of their race. Narvi of Khazad-dûm worked beside Bar of Belegost and Telchar of Nogrod, and marvels blossomed beneath their hammers and chisels. Frerin laughed openly at his astonishment before dragging him onwards to gape at yet another wonder.

  
  
Frerin, by [Aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/107555555248/frerin-son-of-thrain-tonights-first-doodling)  
  


Finally his brother slowed before a great arched door wound about with pearls, diamonds and mithril, and his shoulders stiffened as though he was about to plunge himself through fire. He took Thorin's hand and led him through into a round stone chamber. The walls were curtained in limestone formations – white, alien shapes that reminded him of the drape of fabric, or even of soft white wings, fluted and graceful. The roof was covered in white stalactites that dripped like melted candle-wax towards a great mirrored underground lake. Dwarrows were seated around it on carved stone benches, gazing deeply into the water.

Some were smiling gently, whilst others wept into their beards.

"This is the Chamber of Sansûkhul," Frerin said softly. "This is Gimlîn-zâram, the pool filled with starlight from no earthly sky. Here we may watch our loved ones left behind in Arda."

Thorin gave his brother a quick glance. Frerin's normally merry face was solemn, his bright blue eyes dark. He noticed Thorin's regard and the corner of his mouth twitched ruefully. "I spent a lot of time here," he said, "sitting upon that bench. That one just over there. I watched you and Dís and Dwalin and Balin, watched you all grow older. Older, and harder... and colder." He swallowed hard, and tugged absently at his forked beard. "Mother and I nearly broke down when you finally smiled again after Fíli's birth. We'd almost forgotten what it looked like."

Thorin did not speak, but he clasped his brother's shoulder in wordless support.

"Did you want to see?"

Mahal's promise leapt to mind, and Thorin hesitated. The strange warmth that had suffused him still burned in his chest as though made of banked embers, and he touched the place over his heart with tentative fingertips. The sleeping mind, the subconscious. But how? How was he to reach his people across the sundering seas and from the Halls of the Dead?

Frerin quickly added, "you don't have to. Look, I mean. No-one's forcing you to."

"I will look," Thorin said heavily, the words feeling as though they were being pulled from him with pliers. His feet were leaden as he stepped to one of the benches and sat. The water was a dark glass sheet before him. It did not reflect light nor the stalactites above them, and no stars beckoned in its depths.

"What do I...?" he began, but Frerin hushed him and took his hand.

"Just watch," he said softly.

Thorin frowned, glaring at the water. Nothing was happening. This was foolishness. Perhaps it was one of Frerin's pranks, a waste of –

A pinprick of light began to pulse in the black depths of the pool, and he gasped. The light was joined by another, and yet another, growing in radiance until finally a galaxy of bright stars winked and whirled beneath the silvery surface of the water.

"You see it, then?" Frerin murmured.

"I think so," Thorin said in awe as the stars blazed forth. "It's beautiful."

"It is," was the soft reply.

The stars grew too bright to look at directly, and he squinted as he tried to make out the pool against the glare. Abruptly, the light was gone, and Thorin was left blinking in the aftermath.

A familiar Dwarf was sitting before him, his head cradled in his hand.

"Dwalin!" Thorin cried in shock, and started forward to his oldest friend and cousin, but his arm passed straight through the body of the loyal warrior. The hand in his clamped down like an iron shackle.

"They cannot hear you," Frerin said, tugging him back. "They cannot feel you. They yet live, and we are but a dream of who we were."

"But-"

"He cannot hear you," Frerin repeated. "Our cousin is as much a ghost to us as we are to him."

"No," Thorin growled. "I was promised. Mahal gave me a gift. I can reach them."

Frerin shook his head. "We all think so at first."

Thorin turned back to Dwalin, who was smoothing his hands over his tattooed pate. His nose was reddened, as though he had been weeping, and one of his eyes was packed tightly with cloths, while a bandage was wound tightly around his ribs. "I did not know he was injured," Thorin said.

Frerin snorted. "Would Dwalin ever say?"

"You bloody fool," Dwalin sighed, and scrubbed at his face before standing awkwardly and making his way with careful steps to a shelf. There he pulled down a flask, tore out the cork with his teeth, and took a long swig.

"Somehow I don't think that will help, brother," came another familiar voice. Thorin whirled to see Balin in the doorway, his white hair covered by a filthy bandage and part of his magnificent beard cut close to reveal a nasty, jagged cut along his cheek and jaw. "And I'm fairly certain it wasn't in Óin's orders."

"He's got his medicines, I've got mine," Dwalin growled, and took another sip.

Balin heaved a sigh, before limping over to the bed and sitting upon it with a pained grunt. Thorin stepped back out of his way, and only then realised where they were. Erebor.

"We are in Fundin's old quarters," he murmured.

"They must have begun the restoration," Frerin said, equally hushed.

Dwalin sat down beside his brother and handed him the flask. "Your beard looks ridiculous," he said, and Balin hummed as he took a dram.

"Aye, azaghâl belkul, and you move like an old gaffer of three hundred."

"Better than some."

"True. Nori will not be so stealthy in future, I fear, not with that steel peg for a foot."

"That'll stop his thieving," Dwalin grunted, and snagged the flask back.

"Nori lost a foot," Thorin said in blank horror. Sly, vain, clever Nori had lost a foot. Dwalin and Balin were injured. How had the rest of his company fared?

Balin held his fingers over the mouth of the flask to stop his brother from drinking, and Dwalin glowered at him with one good eye. "You've been hiding yourself here, nadadith," Balin said gently. "The others wonder and worry about you."

"I'm fine," Dwalin snapped. "Tell them not to waste their time."

"You're not," Balin said. "You're mourning. It is natural, brother."

Dwalin snarled, and his fists bunched. "Nothing is natural now that they are dead!"

Balin shook his head. "That isn't what I meant. It isn't right that they are gone, but it is right that you miss them. I miss them too. So do the others. They wish to share their grief with yours, so that we can heal around our great wound together."

"They didn't know him like we did," Dwalin said, his face mottled and angry. His lips tightened and his throat bobbed rapidly. "They did not grow up with him, did not share all his hardships..."

"Maybe the others were not so close as us," Balin said, and with a gentle hand brought his brother's forehead against his own. "But they shared their lives in other ways. Dori brought up his brothers in the poverty of Ered Luin, just as _he_ did for Fíli and Kíli. Ori used to trail after the lads like a lost pet. Bofur and Bombur lost Bifur's words to Orcs, just as he lost Thrór. Glóin was in the same training group as Dís, and the pair of them would terrorise Dáin every time he visited – don't you remember?"

Dwalin was still for a moment, and then his head bowed.

Balin smoothed his hand over Dwalin's patterned head. "We travelled with them – shared their meals, their songs, their dangers. We all braved trolls and orcs and wargs and goblins and spiders – even barrels - together. The others have a right to their sorrow, and they wish to comfort you in yours. They... _he_ did not belong to we two alone. He belonged to all of us. He was our King."

"Aye, our King," Dwalin said bitterly, and his eyes closed so tightly that deep furrows were carved in his skin. "Our friend, and our King."

"Shazara, Dwalin, or I will finally take your head, you old sot," Thorin managed through numbed lips. Frerin pulled him close, and Thorin buried his face against the warm, living shoulder, breathing harshly.

"Are you all right?" he murmured.

"I," he rasped. "I did not think they would mourn."

Frerin seemed surprised. "Why would they not?"

Thorin raised his head and glared, and Frerin sighed. "Gold-madness or no, Thorin, you were their friend. You were their King for a century, ever since Father disappeared. They loved you. Of course they mourn."

Thorin buried his head again, and Frerin tugged on his braid comfortingly.

"Come on. Close your eyes. There are others to see."

Thorin closed his eyes, and when next they opened he was looking out at a hall covered in a sea of sluggish bodies. The hundreds upon hundreds of wounded were filling the air with their groans and cries, and Thorin bit down on a cry of his own as he saw the carnage the orcs had wrought.

Óin looked exhausted. His curled braids were frayed and his eyes were deep black pits in his sunken face. Glóin, Dori and Bilbo moved around him with mechanical movements, washing the wounded, feeding them, boiling water and smearing ointment on injuries. In a corner in a great rotted chair sat Nori, tearing cloth to make bandages. His left leg came to a shocking stop below his knee, and a metal peg – obviously Bofur's work – sat half-finished beside him. Amongst the beds trudged Óin, drooping and ceaseless, his hands never still as he stitched and cut and wrapped. None of them spoke.

The sight of the Hobbit, his eyes haunted, caused a great surge of regret in Thorin's breast. Bilbo drifted through his tasks as though he were the ghost and not Thorin. His curly head was wrapped in a cloth. Every now and then Glóin would rest a comforting hand on his thin little shoulder. The memory of the contented, proper little fellow 'bobbing on the mat' he had met in the Shire all those months ago suddenly struck him, and he tore his eyes away. He could not ever forgive himself for what he had done, though Bilbo could forgive him a thousand times over.

Glóin paused over a pallet, and Thorin dimly recognised the unmistakable shape of Bombur. The large, friendly Dwarf was wrapped in bandages from the thigh downwards, and in his sleep his face was screwed up in pain. Glóin chewed on his lower lip for a moment, before signalling Dori. The silver-haired Dwarf nodded and came to hold down Bombur's shoulders with his powerful hands. They met each other's eyes, and then Glóin cut away the bandages.

Bombur's eyes flew open, and he screamed. Underneath the cloths, a black putrescence was creeping up Bombur's leg. With a sickening swoop in his belly, Thorin recognised orc-poison. Glóin uncorked a bottle and began to massage the stuff into Bombur's leg, ignoring his shrieks of pain. Oozing pus came gushing from the wound, streaked with black, and Glóin sighed.

"Need to open it again, do you think?" he said dully.

Dori's face sagged, though his voice was brisk. "Yes indeed we will, Mister Glóin. This time, however, I'll do it. Your sewing is atrocious, if you'll pardon me saying."

"I'm a banker, not a weaver," Glóin retorted.

Bombur mercifully passed out. Thorin clamped his teeth together until they creaked, and his eyes flew to Bilbo. He was carefully spooning soup into the mouth of Ori, who was hunched over as his breath wheezed and rattled. It appeared that there was blood in his lungs, and from the look of the poultice against his face he had narrowly missed losing his nose. Lying on the pallet beside Ori was Bifur. He lay insensate, his body twitching every now and then. The axe-head he had carried for decades had been torn from his skull, and his head was packed in bloody rags.

Occasionally Óin would examine a wounded Dwarf only to turn away with a wooden expression. That Dwarf would be made comfortable, given potions to make their sleep as painless as possible, and left alone to drift out of the world.

Through his shame Thorin wondered how many new residents of the Halls there were that he was responsible for.

Frerin put his hand on Thorin's upper arm. "Come on."

With a final look at the Hobbit, Thorin closed his eyes.

When next they opened, he was looking out into the honeycombed and vaulted audience hall of Erebor with its towering paths of stone, and his cousin was slumped on the throne, glowering. His wild red hair was scraped back in a queue rather than in his customary flowing braids, and above him yawned the hole where the Arkenstone once shone. Dáin seemed to have aged a century since Thorin had last looked upon him. His hand moved restlessly as though grasping for his great red battle-axe, Barazanthual, as he listened to the Elven Princeling speak.

[ ](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/74236591000/dain-ironfoot-by-yorikosakakibara-dain-ii)

  


_Dáin II Ironfoot, by[FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/74236591000/dain-ironfoot-by-yorikosakakibara-dain-ii) (YorikoSakakibara)_

"We will help," the Prince was saying. "My father has agreed. We shall send food and medicines to Bard, and he can send them to you. I doubt your people will trust them should we bring them directly."

"That's a change of tune," remarked a voice, and to Thorin's great astonishment Bofur was hunched beside the throne, his arms folded and the pitiful remains of his hat crammed on his head. His normally cheerful face was pulled down into lines of suffering, and the light in his eyes was cynical and cold. "Thought you didn't believe in helpin' us."

The Prince gave Bofur one of those ageless inscrutable Elven stares. "A friend made me see it clearly," he eventually said. "This _is_ our fight."

"A convenient time for you to finally see sense, now that the dragon's dead and everything lies in ashes," Dáin growled.

The Prince inclined his head regretfully. "We will help," he repeated.

"Elves," said Frerin sourly. "Always too early or too late."

Bofur seemed to agree wholeheartedly. He pulled his tunic straight with a sharp jerk and a contemptuous snarl, and stalked away.

Dáin watched him go with weariness written all over his face, before turning back to the Elf. "Forgive him, Prince Legolas," he said. "He suffered at the hands of your... hospitality, shall we call it? And later, of course, it seemed that Men and Elves alike would happily clamber over their corpses in order to steal that which rightfully belongs to our people. Dwarves do not quickly forget an injustice."

"I hope Dwarves will also remember that we fought for them, in the end," said Legolas quietly.

"Aye, possibly, possibly." Dáin sighed loudly and pulled a sheet of parchment closer. "Don't hold your breath though, laddie."

Legolas' mouth tilted upwards the very smallest amount.

"Is Dáin... signing a _treaty_?" Thorin spluttered in outrage. "He is! Dáin, stop that! Cast this traitor Elf out of my mountain! Throw him from the highest peak!"

Frerin rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't speak of throwing anyone from anywhere, if I were you."

 _Bilbo_. The guilt suffused him once more, and Thorin's mouth snapped shut.

"That was cruel," he hissed.

"So were you," Frerin pointed out. "Dáin will do what he must. The Elvenking is powerful, and Mirkwood stands between Erebor and the southern kingdoms of Men. Erebor needs his goodwill for trade, if nothing else. At least this son of his doesn't seem so bad."

"This son of his threatened to kill me!"

"And you handled the situation with such tact and diplomacy, I'm sure. Dáin knows that Erebor is the watchtower of the North. It guards all free peoples, not just the Dalefolk and Dwarves."

"But Dale..."

"Is a ruin, and may be one for some time," Frerin interrupted. "In the meantime food must come from somewhere, and the Elves have it and the Men do not. Open your eyes, nadad. He's right. You may not like it, but Dáin is better at this than you. He has ruled the Iron Hills ever since Azanulbizar – a hundred and forty years of peace and prosperity. He's a proven leader and politician, and he knows this stuff inside out – better than you or I, wanderers that we were."

"How do _you_ know this?" Thorin said, rounding on his brother. "You hated lessons!"

Frerin shook his head in exasperation. "Because I have watched – watched for decades upon decades. How d'you think?"

Thorin grunted and turned back to Dáin. The grizzled old warrior nodded to the Prince, who bowed in response. Then the Elf left, his robes flowing out behind him as upon silent feet he walked down the long and broken stone walkways.

Dáin rubbed at his forehead before standing and making his way past the throne to the door set behind its base, opening it and stepping into the King's antechamber. There he paused and leaned heavily upon a table, and only then did Thorin notice the bandage wrapped around his leg. Blood was seeping through it.

"He is wounded," he said. Frerin raised his eyebrows.

"You know Dáin. Wouldn't show a weakness if his life depended on it. That Dwarrow is iron all the way through."

"Stubborn idiot," Thorin said as Dáin massaged the edges of the wound with his huge fingers.

"It's a proud family trait," Frerin grinned.

"You stubborn idiot," Dáin suddenly said, and laughed aloud in his gruff voice. Thorin blinked.

"Did he just...?"

"Would have had my head for this, wouldn't you cousin?" Dáin continued, his eyes fixed on some distant memory. Thorin followed his gaze to where the crown sat on its bed of rotted silks. "Thrown me from the peak of the Mountain, no doubt. Well, I dearly hope there're no Elves where you've gone to. Else you'd be even grimmer in death than you were in life! Instead, you trap me in this damned stinking place and leave me to deal with this mess. Me dealing with them bloody enigmatic weed-eaters and those pompous, grasping Men – and don't get me started on Wizards! If you were here before me, Thorin, you stiff-necked bastard, I'd cut you down myself, so I would!"

"Durin's hammer and tongs," Frerin whispered. "Did he... do you think he can..."

"I told you," Thorin said thickly, "Mahal gave me a gift. They will sense my words in their deepest minds."

Frerin stared at him.

"I know." Thorin closed his eyes. "I am unworthy."

"Not _that,"_ Frerin said. "You must watch what you say! This is a power no Dwarf should have."

Thorin frowned. "Why? They cannot hear my words as you do."

"You could influence them without their knowing," Frerin said, his bright youthful face unusually serious. "You must be careful, Thorin. They could act without knowledge of their actions."

Opening his mouth to retort, Thorin abruptly recalled the subtle power of the gold and his desperate determination to see the treasures of his people safe in Dwarven hands. Troubled, he turned back to Dáin. "Aye."

But Dáin was gone. In his place lay a weeping Dwarrowdam, her head thrown across her crossed forearms, and her dark hair, streaked with silver, splayed about her shoulders. The room about her was neat and modest, nothing like the ruined grandeur of Erebor. This was Ered Luin.

"Oh," said Thorin faintly.

"She did this after Azanulbizar as well," said Frerin, his voice subdued. "For months and months. You – you didn't see – you were travelling back from Moria with the dead and wounded. She stayed strong in the face of the court and she guided our people in our grandfather's absence. But she wept in the silence of her rooms."

The sole survivor of Thrór's line sobbed into her sleeves, and in her cries of despair was a deep and echoing loneliness that shook Thorin to his core. "Sister," he said miserably, the guilt an almost physical ache. "Sister, please stop. It is all right. It will be all right."

"No!" Frerin said sharply, and pulled Thorin's face back to his. "If she can hear you deep within, tell her what she needs to hear. Tell her!" His brother took a painful breath. "Tell her as I wished _I_ could."

Thorin stared wretchedly at Frerin, his lost brother, here with him in the shared embrace of death. Then he looked over at Dís, their stubborn, steel-willed baby sister. "I..."

Dís wrapped her arms around her body and let out a long, low moan. A message was crumpled in her hand. Her eyes, darkest brown like Thráin's and Kíli's, were awash with tears that streaked down her cheeks to soak her intricate pattern-shaved beard, and her strong Durin nose was reddened from her crying.

"Dís," Thorin began hopelessly, and then looked back at Frerin.

"Gather your courage, O King Under the Mountain," he said in an low voice. Thorin straightened his shoulders and then hesitantly, tentatively sat beside his sister. He halted for a moment to gather his racing thoughts, and then he began to speak.

"Dís," he said gently. "I love you. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I took your boys away from you. The Halls are a marvel, and we will wait for you. Víli is here, and he longs for you. Fíli and Kíli are here, and they miss you desperately. Oh Dís, you should see them with Frerin. It is a catastrophe waiting to happen, just as you always said. Mother speaks of you often, you know. And Father is here, and he is himself again. Grandfather and grandmother, Fundin and Gróin and the rest. We're all here, and we love you. We'll watch over you until it is your time to join us. We will wait for you. But you must also wait for us."

He paused, and then he lifted his hand to hover it above her grey-streaked hair. "Little sister," he murmured, "I wish I hadn't left you all alone. It is one of my deepest regrets, and I have so many. Oh, so very many. I will not blame you if you hate me."

Frerin watched silently as Thorin tried to stroke Dís' hair, and his hand passed directly through the long, tangled locks.

"Live on for us, namadith," Thorin said, and his throat closed around the words, making them sound thin and reedy. "Wait for us. Lead our people back to our home."

Dís blinked back her tears, and her hand tightened about the crushed message. "That prideful fool," she rasped, her voice harsh with weeping.

"Aye," Thorin said, and smiled through a fresh storm of shame. "A prideful fool who loves you. Though I die, that will never change. No veil of death can stop it."

"Nothing ever stopped him," she said, and buried her face in her hands once more. "Why did he never _stop?"_

"Line of Durin, sister," he said, and swallowed roughly. "A proud... family trait."

"Damn the Line of Durin to the nethermost pits of Moria," she hissed into her palms, and her voice began to rise with barely-contained anguish. "Damn our line, and damn our pride, and damn our name, and damn our blind, wilful madness! Let the dragon have Erebor if it would bring them back to me! I would have them _here!_ How am I to go on alone? My sons are gone! My brother gone! Our line is spent and I am alone!" She whirled and took up a cup on her dresser and flung it against the wall with a cry of rage and misery.

"You will go on," said Thorin. "You will, daughter of Kings, best of sisters. You are as stubborn as the rest of us."

She collapsed across her bed, and her tears began anew. Thorin stood and sighed.

"Months, you say," he said grimly.

"Months," said Frerin.

"Do you think I reached her?"

"I think it might take a few more attempts," Frerin said wryly.

Thorin sighed again, and closed his eyes.

When next he opened them, he was upon a parapet looking down over the gates of Ered Luin. He blinked tiredly, the hollow ache under his ribs throbbing as though it was a second heart. "But who is there left? Who of our family have we not seen?"

Frerin inclined his head. "Ah, of course. The least and littlest. And certainly one of the loudest."

"Who...?" Thorin turned.

A burly young Dwarf, not even seventy, was stacking wood for the braziers that would warm the night-watchmen. His bright red hair was pulled back into workman's braids, his short beard thick on his cheeks and tied into two small braids that stuck out either side of his chin. His face was set and pale. "Glóin's son," he said in surprise.

"Aye," said Frerin. "Did you forget him?"

"Once the quest was joined I did not give anything else much thought," Thorin said, and moved closer towards the young Dwarf. "So this is Glóin's star. I never spent much time with the lad, though he knew Fíli and Kíli well. He is almost grown."

"He's but sixty-two, even younger than Dáin's boy," Frerin said, scratching at his beard. "He wished to go with you, if you remember. He thinks himself quite ripe for an adventure, but his father forbade it. It was quite a scene. I thoroughly enjoyed it."

Studying the youngster's face, Thorin saw traces of the Durin line in his straight brows and wide shoulders, and in the stubborn set of his ears. His nose however was not the sharp blade of the Longbeard clan but the round snub of the Broadbeams, and he had the fiery hair and beard inherited from Glóin's Firebeard mother. "He favours his father," he mused.

"Lad!" came a shout from below. Gimli wiped off his sweaty forehead and leaned over the parapet to see where the Captain stood leaning on his pike in the courtyard. "Are you finished with the wood?"

"Nearly!" Gimli called back. He had a man's voice, deep and rough and touched with the accent of Thaforabbad, like Glóin's and Óin's. "What is there to do after I am finished?"

"Water for the ponies," the Captain said. "The patrol will be back in a couple of hours."

"Aye, and the water will be ready," Gimli said, and went back to stacking the wood.

"Does he not yet know?" Thorin wondered.

"Gimli?" Frerin raised his eyebrows. "He knows. Look at how pale he is, and the spots of colour on his cheeks."

Thorin watched the young Dwarf work for a moment longer, noting the mechanical movements and the dogged persistence that kept one foot stepping in front of the other. "The lad is mourning his playfellows, and seeks to exhaust himself with work rather than weep," he said.

"I have wept long enough," Gimli muttered to himself. "Aye, and loudly too! Work is what is needed. Work will tire my mind and keep my thoughts quiet."

"Thorin!" Frerin's eyes widened in astonishment. "He hears you!"

"He hears me well, even more clearly than Dáin or Dís," Thorin said slowly, and he tilted his head as he studied his youngest cousin further. Gimli laced his fingers and made the knuckles crack loudly, and then he hefted a sawn tree-round to the block and unslung a wood-axe from his belt. A strong boy, then. "He must be quite a perceptive lad. Glóin does well to be proud of him."

"My father would do well to send for me," Gimli suddenly growled before hewing at the wood with a smooth and practised swing: Dwalin himself could not have bettered it. Thorin was taken aback at the young Dwarf's proficiency. Between each stroke, Gimli kept up his angry mutterings. "My uncle will need my help. I would comfort my cousins. I should have been there. They were greater than I, and more important. I should have defied my father. I would have protected them. I would have bought their lives with mine, if need be! No Lord of the Iron Hills should sit the throne of Erebor!"

"Lofty ambitions," Frerin said, and leaned against the parapet. "See that swing? He's a natural axeman, and already a talented warrior. Dwalin trained him along with our nephews. It was rather entertaining to watch them - they are both equally as pigheaded as each other."

"He's a Dwarf, of course he's pigheaded," said Thorin. "And he's a Durin as well, so there's another strike against him. What else of his character?"

Frerin shrugged. "He's honest, and kind when he wishes to be. His loyalty, once given, is diamond-hard and mithril-true. His faithfulness is absolute, and he never breaks his word. This one will be a fine Dwarf-Lord. Still, he is but a child, and can be quick to anger, impulsive and occasionally rather brash."

 _This child is fourteen years older than you ever were_ , Thorin thought. Aloud, he said, "So just like you, then," and Frerin grinned, though it was somewhat dimmed by the suffering they had seen.

"I was never so loud."

"You were louder, believe me," Thorin said, and turned back to Gimli, who was chopping away with a will. "So. There is still a young one left. Not all our children are spent."

"Not all," agreed Frerin. "Dáin's son Thorin rules the Iron Hills as regent, and Glóin's star still shines."

Gimli stacked the last of his wood, and then leaned heavily on his axe as he lifted his ruddy head in the thin late afternoon sunlight. "Ah, my friends," he said softly. "Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal. I will miss you. May they never forget you."

Thorin's eyebrows lowered, but before he could say more, he blinked and was whirled away.

The pool lay sparkling before him, the stars winking and fading in the depths. Thorin's neck was stiff, and he straightened with a groan before touching his face with his fingertips. His cheeks were wet.

Frerin stepped beside him, and pulled him up by the arm. "Are you all right?"

Thorin gazed at him for a long moment, and the weight of all his mistakes was heavier than the Mountain. "No," he said, and turned away.

Frerin gently took his hand and led him from the pool. Thorin thought on all he had seen, and bowed his head. Ruin and despair had been left in his wake, and his sister, cousins and companions were left with the whole terrible, sorrowful mess.

The only flicker of light in the darkness was a muttering young Dwarrow who chopped wood with a warrior's swing, who wore Durin's brow and a Broadbeam nose and the bright red hair of the Firebeards.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._  
>     
>  __  
> Gimli – star  
>  Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Nadadith - little brother  
> Namadith – little sister  
> Azaghâl belkul – mighty warrior  
> Shazara – silence  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal (formal goodbye)  
> Thaforabbad – the Grey Mountains (where many Dwarves took refuge directly after the fall of Erebor)
> 
> Narvi of Khazad-dûm - a great craftsman of the Second Age, who with Celebrimbor (the greatest smith of the Noldorian Elves) made the ithildin Doors of Khazad-dûm.
> 
> Telchar of Nogrod – First Age. One of the greatest Dwarven smiths of all time. Forged the sword Narsíl (the blade of Elendil, later to be reforged under the name Anduríl and wielded by Aragorn son of Arathorn) and the knife Angrist which could cut through anything.
> 
> Khazad-dûm – now known as Moria (Sindarin), the Black Pit. The lost Kingdom of the Longbeard Dwarves, Durin's Folk, from the Age of the Trees. A Balrog was uncovered in the days of Durin VI. It killed the King, his successor Náin I, and wiped out most of the Dwarves and so the Kingdom was abandoned. Several attempts have been made to retake it.
> 
> Belegost (Khuzdul: Gabilgathol)– Kingdom of the Broadbeam Dwarves in the Blue Mountains (Ered Luin), sister city to Nogrod. The Kingdom was lost during the War of Wrath, when the mountains were broken apart and much of them fell into the sea.
> 
> Nogrod (Khuzdul: Tumunzahar) - Kingdom of the Firebeard Dwarves in the Blue Mountains, sister city to Belegost, also lost during the War of Wrath. These Dwarves were those responsible for the sacking of Doriath and the murder of Elu Thingol.
> 
> _For the curious:[The Durin Family Tree is rather bigger than just Thorin, Dís, Fíli & Kíli.](http://thainsbook.net/images/durintree.gif) Before the BotFA, Balin is sixth in line to the throne, and Gimli is tenth!_


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hover your cursor over the text to see the Khuzdul or Sindarin translation!**

* * *

The days passed slowly. Two Dwarves who had died during the Battle of Five Armies (as they were now calling it) bowed to Thorin upon meeting him, and at least another six punched him square in the face. His grandfather patted his shoulder consolingly.

"You should have seen this place after Azanulbizar," was all he said.

He was shown to a work area in the smithies, and though the metals were the finest and purest he had ever worked with, he did not have much heart for craft. Mithril and silver made him melancholy, and the sight of gold filled him with a self-loathing so great he could taste it in his mouth. Only copper, steel or iron would he shape. Occasionally Thráin would work beside him, though they spoke but little.

Frerin did not come to the forge. His brother evidently sensed that Thorin needed time after what they had seen, and left him to his own devices. When he was not in the smithy Thorin spent time with his mother and nephews. Fíli and Kíli made him smile again, though it was strained. His mother comforted him as no other could, her fingers busy on her harp as she played old, peaceful songs from his childhood, untouched by any sorrow.

Eventually, however, Thorin could put it off no longer, and he made his way back to the Chamber of Sansûkhul to dive back amongst the drowned stars.

He went to his sister first. Dís still wept. He could not reach her through her mourning. He sat with her for long hours, watching her thin grey face grow ever thinner and greyer, and pleaded with her to eat. She did not.

He left, his heart heavy.

In Erebor, there was a funeral. Thorin watched as they laid the Arkenstone on his cold, dead breast, wrapped his parchment-white and stiffened fingers around the hilt of Orcrist, and sealed his body and those of his nephews in the tomb.

Bilbo cried bitterly the whole time.

As the white stone passed over Fíli's rent and rigid corpse, Thorin covered his mouth with his hands, pressing them so fiercely against his bloodless lips that he could feel the shape of his teeth beneath. With a savage curse he closed his eyes and fled that sight.

He opened them again to see a tavern in the halls of Ered Luin. There, unhappy and bemused, he watched his fiery young cousin get roaring drunk. Gimli sang and danced, drank and laughed, and sat slumped behind his tankard with his head in his hands. At one point he sent a powerful blow straight into the teeth of another Dwarrow for some slight made against his father's Company. The two eventually went staggering home arm in arm singing a bawdy marching song that the lad really should not know at his age. Compared to the hollow, wretched desolation of Erebor, Gimli seemed to burst with life, filled with youthful vigour and strength. His energy was contagious, and Thorin emerged from the starlit waters feeling somewhat lighter.

He returned to the forge and bent to his work with a renewed will. He finished a sword. It was his finest effort.

Then he steeled his heart and plunged into the pool again.

Dís did not weep any longer. She sat still as stone on the chair of Ered Luin, approving baggage train after baggage train and convoy after convoy that left for Erebor. She did not sense him. Her eyes were like chips of ice in her face.

Thorin begged her to hear him, but she was as unreachable as the moon.

Work was proceeding apace on the Mountain. Everywhere he looked Thorin could see the devastation caused by the dragon and the echoes of his folly. Even as the Kingdom slowly began to rise from mourning, Thorin could barely look at his living companions without seeing the light of the gold-sickness that had once danced in their eyes. No-one had been as thoroughly lost as Thorin himself, of course, but he had dragged them all behind him into his madness nevertheless.

To see the guilt and grief in their faces made his own grow until it felt like a stone chained around his neck.

Bifur lived. Under Bofur and Bilbo's steady care, he slowly began to improve. The scar on his forehead was a hideous thing, a great dent inches deep. He did not speak at all, and even Iglishmêk escaped him at times. Now and then he would pause in mid-motion, and the frustration in his face bordered on fury.

Bombur would carry a limp for the rest of his life. He seemed resigned to it, and bent himself to the task of carving a great walking staff. It had many cunningly concealed compartments in which he kept spices, forks, sweets and biscuits.

Ori was out of his sickbed as soon as Óin gave him permission, though a racking cough continued to plague him. He immediately began to help Nori with relearning to walk. The former thief was sullen as he clattered about their rooms. With each of his arms looped over the shoulders of his brothers, he winced and cursed with every rattling step until finally he roared with anger and resentment. Ori stood his ground, all his shyness and uncertainty burned away in the fires of battle. He faced his brother's rage calmly until Nori had exhausted himself, and then helped him back to his chair. Dori made pot of tea after pot of tea, lips white and stiff, before carefully plaiting the drained and silent Nori's red-brown hair back into its elaborate braids. Then the Brothers Ri held onto Nori's hands tightly until he felt able to cry.

Dáin quickly appointed Glóin, Óin, Balin and Dwalin to posts of power. Balin was the Seneschal and First Advisor, Glóin the Treasurer, Óin became a Councillor and Dwalin gained command of the Army, such as it was in its reduced and pitiful state. There was some grumbling from the folk of the Iron Hills, but Dáin pinned them with his gimlet stare until they were silent.

When Balin's beard had nearly grown back, his Company said farewell to their Burglar. Bilbo was grave and his face was drawn as he embraced them all in turn and told them to call in on him if they were ever near the Shire. He smiled wanly. "Tea is at four o'clock, but any of you are welcome at any time!"

Óin patted the little fellow's head, and Dori pressed a bundle of embroidered and folded linens into Bilbo's hands. "What's this?" he said, and opened one before letting out a laugh. "Pocket-handkerchiefs!"

"Well, you never know," Ori said, and ducked his head, coughing. There was a vivid red scar running along the side of his soft young face.

"Travel safely," Balin said, before pulling the Hobbit into another tight embrace. "You are always one of us, Bilbo Baggins, khazâd-bâhel, Dwarf-Friend. Be you well."

Bilbo's chin trembled, and he clutched at Balin's coat with shaking fingers. "I wish..." he said in a tiny little voice.

"I know, laddie," Balin murmured. "We all do."

With a sigh, Bilbo pushed himself away and straightened his little jacket and swordbelt. Thorin's fingers drifted over the Hobbit's features, and he wished too, oh how he wished.

Bofur chucked him under his chin, and then took his ragged hat and dropped it on Bilbo's curly head. "Here," he said. "Keep a hold o' that for me. I'll be around to collect it one o' these days."

Bilbo gave him a watery smile and fingered the brim. "I'll do that."

"Hobbit," said Dwalin, and cleared his throat loudly. "Not sure if anyone's said this t' you at all." Then he bowed before the astonished Hobbit and said, with all sincerity;

"Thank you."

"Aye." – "Thank you, laddie." – "We can never thank you enough." The rest of the company also bowed low. Bilbo looked upset and flustered.

"No, you mustn't," he said, and he wrung his little hands. "No, please, my friends..."

Balin rose and winked at Bilbo. "Khazâd-bâhel."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Bilbo snapped, and mopped at his eyes with one of his new handkerchiefs. "Dwarves! Overdramatic, the lot of you! Oh, I am going to miss you all dreadfully."

"Bilbo," Gandalf said gently. "Time to be off."

He turned his head to look out over the deep purple expanse of Mirkwood and the spires of the Misty Mountains in the distance. "Here," he said softly, "and back again."

Then he turned back to the remainder of Thorin's company and wagged his finger at them. "Wish I'd never met you," he said, and gave a sad little chuckle. "You've been a thoroughly terrible influence. What will they make of me, back home? Who will I be now?"

"You're our Burglar," said Dwalin gruffly, and several others chorused their agreement. "Any of 'em give you trouble, you send me a raven. I'll sort 'em out."

"Where will I find a trained raven in the Shire?" Bilbo snorted. "Besides, I rather think I can handle it myself, nowadays. But thank you for the offer!"

"I'll be through in a year or two," Glóin promised. "I'll be travelling back to Ered Luin to collect my family. Bombur too. We'll stop by. Don't forget!"

With a leg-up from Dori, Bilbo crawled astride his pony. "I'll lock up my dishes specially," he laughed. "Farewell, my friends! Write as often as you can!"

"Get going lad, or we'll be out here all day," muttered Nori, his face thunderously unhappy.

"Yes, quite," Bilbo mumbled, and he fidgeted for a moment with his reins. "Nasty business, this travelling. Yes, best to get it over and done with."

"Kill a goblin or two for me!" said Bombur.

"Oh, but don't get too close!"

"Aye, and watch out for Trolls!"

"And giants!"

"And rivers!"

"And spiders!"

"And Elves!"

"Send me a copy of that herb-lore book, if you would be so kind!" That was Óin.

"And the recipe for fruitcake you mentioned," Bombur added.

"Oh, and if you please, anything you have on the history of Hobbits and the Shire!" And that was _definitely_ Ori.

"Goodbye!" And with that, Bilbo turned his pony – he was still a rather atrocious rider – and began to trot away, the Wizard and the Bear-Man keeping pace.

Thorin took a last look at their brave little Burglar to whom he owed so much. "Farewell, Bilbo Baggins, respectable gentlehobbit of Bag End," he said half to himself. "Farewell, wise and kindly child of the West." He drank in the sight of the curly head, the bold bare little chin, the small leaf-like ears, the shrewd eyes and sharp tongue, clever hands and large furry feet. "I am sorry," he added, his voice nearly a whisper.

Bilbo abruptly stopped and faced the Mountain, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield," he said, his face lifting. "And Fíli and Kíli! May your memory never fade!"

Thorin jerked back as though struck, and then closed his eyes hurriedly. When he blinked awake in the Chamber of Sansûkhul, he staggered through the pearl –studded arch and back to the dark, warm closeness of his chamber, where he would sit with his hands and eyes clenched for hours.

* * *

"Uncle?"

"Fíli," Thorin said, and put aside the knife he was detailing; a match for the sword. The pommel was giving him trouble. "What is it?

Fíli nervously tugged at a moustache braid. "Frerin told me something."

Thorin sighed. "Do I need to hit him?"

Fíli scowled. "Very hard. Repeatedly."

Frerin and his nephews were having a disagreement. Frerin had tried to convince Fíli and Kíli to call him 'uncle' as they sometimes did Thorin, but they constantly forgot. As Kíli had complained, 'I can't call a Dwarrow thirty years younger than me _uncle._ It just feels wrong!' Frerin would not desist, however, and his nephews were treated to all the delights of his younger brother's most annoying habit – nagging. Needless to say, they were quickly growing irritated. Thorin had a wager running with Gróin that Kíli would land the first blow.

"Really?" Thorin fixed Fíli with a stern look that he knew well, and the younger Dwarf shuffled his feet.

"Well. Possibly. Is he always this annoying?"

"Worse than Kíli at twenty-five?" Thorin offered, and Fíli shuddered.

"That can't be possible."

"All that aside, what did he tell you?" Thorin wiped off his hands, and then leaned against the workbench.

"He said..." Fíli hesitated, and then burst, "he said you can talk to them. That sometimes they hear you, in the sleeping thoughts beneath the waking ones."

Thorin froze, and then put down the cloth slowly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, Mahal granted me a boon."

"Why you?" Fíli cried. "Why you and not me or Kíli?"

Crossing to his nephew, Thorin took his shoulders. Fíli clutched at him, and Thorin could feel him trembling. "Is this about your 'amad?" Thorin said quietly.

"She cries and cries," Fíli said, his voice tense and dark. "When she isn't crying, she is nothing but a shell, a statue. She is so very alone, Thorin, and I hate it!"

"I do too." Thorin tucked Fíli's head beneath his chin. "I have tried, nephew. She heard me a little at first, in the freshest storm of her grief. Now she is stone and hears nothing but her own loneliness."

"Does nothing help?" Fíli said, sounding very small.

Thorin stroked Fíli's thick yellow hair. "Nothing that I have found."

"Why did Mahal give you this gift?" Fíli said. "A gift that doesn't even work?"

"I think perhaps it is because I shouted at him," Thorin said thoughtfully, and a short bark of laughter escaped Fíli.

"You yelled at our Maker," he said, and shook his head against Thorin's shoulder. "You're unbelievable sometimes."

A wry smile pulled at his lips. "So I've been reliably told. Anyway, I shouted at him and he said that for the injustice of our deaths and the love he bore me, he would give me a way to reach them to make my amends. It is uncertain and inconstant, but he cannot pierce the walls of death further. Some hear me better than others. I believe it is because they know themselves well and are at peace with their own hearts."

"Hmm," Fíli said, and pulled back to frown up at his uncle. "Who hears you?"

"Dáin does, now and then. Occasionally Balin, Dori and Glóin as well, and Dwalin quite frequently. And Gimli most of all."

"Gimli?" Fíli's mouth dropped open. "Our little cousin Gimli?"

"He's not so little anymore," Thorin said, raising his eyebrows. "The lad has more beard than Bofur, is broader than Nori and is most certainly taller than you, though not as tall as Kíli. I judge he's over four foot six and has further still to grow."

"I know, I know, but he'll always be little Gimli with the terrible temper to me," Fíli said, shaking his head. "Gimli hears you! Well, that is a shock." Then Fíli's eyes lit up. "Oh!"

"I know that look," Thorin said suspiciously. "That is not a reassuring look."

"Gimli is still in Ered Luin, yes?" Fíli grabbed at Thorin's tunic in his excitement. "Where Mum is! You could get him to comfort her! They're cousins, he knew us, and she wouldn't be so alone, I'm sure it would help, oh, talk to him – please, please try!"

"I will not 'get him' to do anything," Thorin snapped, and shook Fíli off. "I am done with leadership and command, Fíli. I have proven to be unworthy of it. Besides, I would not influence the lad to do anything that he would not normally do. That would be the basest form of coercion, and such things are a great evil."

"Gimli _would_ help her if he knew!" Fíli pleaded. He was practically trembling with desperation, and his breath was coming quite fast. "I'm dead, you're dead, Kee's dead, we're all _dead_! I can't be there for her, and neither can you – but someone has to. Gimli is there, and as distant as the connection is, he is still a Durin, still family; the only family she has left in Ered Luin. He was our friend! He called her Aunt! They're both alone, and you could fix that. Remind him of her, that's all. He'll do the rest, I know he will! Help her. Help them. Just... just try! If not for me, then for Mum. Please?"

Their eyes met.

Thorin dropped his head. "For the love I bear you, and the woe the Shadow wrought in you," he murmured, and sighed deeply. Of course he would do as Fíli asked. He owed the lad everything and more, after all that he had stolen from him.

"You'll do it?" Fíli leaned forward, hope shining in his face.

Thorin rubbed at his face with nerveless fingers. "Yes," he said, and then he reached out and gently tucked one of Fíli's braids behind his ear. "Yes, I'll try. For you and your brother, and for Dís."

Fíli whooped and raced to the door, his boots ringing against the stone. "I'll get Kee! Don't go into the starlight without us, we're coming too!"

Thorin watched him go with a sinking feeling, and wondered what exactly he had let himself in for now.

Fíli returned in only minutes, Kíli skittering behind him. Their faces were alight with hope, and Kíli immediately blurted, "is it true? They can hear you?"

Thorin ran a hand through his hair. "It's true, but-"

Kíli let out a hoot of joy and punched the air in triumph.

" _But_ ," Thorin repeated, "they cannot hear my words directly. The mists that divide Arda from Aman cannot be so easily pierced. They only hear me in their subconscious mind, and even then many do not perceive me at all."

"But some do," Kíli said.

"Some," Thorin agreed, his expression guarded.

"Gimli hears him," Fíli interrupted breathlessly. "And Gimli is in Ered Luin."

"What are we waiting for?" Kíli let out another delighted whoop and grabbed Thorin's wrist. "Let's go, let's go, let's _go!"_

Thorin pulled backwards, his greater weight keeping him immobile against Kíli's enthusiastic towing. "My forge..."

"Will still be here when we come back," Fíli said with a lilt of impatience. "The fires are not lit, and the knife doesn't have legs. You promised, Thorin."

Thorin debated with himself the wisdom of pointing out that really, he _hadn't_ promised, and then decided against it. He allowed himself to be dragged to the Chamber of Sansûkhul. Kíli was biting his lips in excitement as he stared at the waters of Gimlîn-zâram, and Fíli's face was pale but earnest. With another sigh, Thorin took their hands and allowed the starlight to claim him.

When the light faded they were looking at Dís. Kíli's breath caught, and Fíli's mouth tightened, but neither spoke. Nor did they have to. Dís' back was stiff and her hands were still and white-knuckled as she sat motionless behind her jeweller's table. No gems or broken pieces lay before her, and she was staring at the rolls of felt that contained her tools with unfocused eyes.

"She just sits there," Thorin said dully. "Sits and sits." Fíli squeezed his hand.

"Let's find Gimli," Kíli said, his voice unusually grim, and Thorin closed his eyes, willing the sight of his lost and shattered sister to vanish.

Opening them, he found that he was looking at the young Dwarf in question. He frowned slightly. He'd never been able to direct the waters of Gimlîn-zâram to show him particular Dwarves before, and he glanced over at Kíli who looked equally perplexed.

"Maybe it's because there are three of us and we all wanted to see the same Dwarrow?" he suggested.

Fíli shrugged. "Perhaps."

Gimli was in the middle of a practice duel. His opponent was an older Dwarf of approximately Balin's age, whom Thorin vaguely recognised.

"Clever, lad," the older Dwarf puffed. "But the old man here has a few tricks up his sleeve that you might not have seen."

"I look forward to them," Gimli retorted, and his axe blurred around him. He was truly skilled, the axe moving in the tight, whirling arcs that required coordination, finesse and extreme muscular strength.

"Good!" his opponent praised when Gimli blocked a savage underhanded swing and reversed it, immediately leaping to the attack. "But do you know this one?" And his hands moved rapidly, the axe spinning for Gimli's neck.

"Ah, Náli!" Gimli growled, and brought the handle of his own weapon up before his face. The clash was deafening. "You will have to do better than that! Dwalin would have had me defeated and mopping out the barracks by now!"

"Not enough of a challenge, nidoy?" Náli raised an eyebrow and laughed. Then he whistled sharply to the other students waiting on the benches that circled the training ring. "Lóni, come here. Let the both of us together teach our fine young warrior a lesson!"

Gimli stepped back, his eyes wary as he hefted his axe. Another young Dwarf stood and moved onto the practice ring. He was heavier than their young kinsman, with a shock of thick brown hair on his head and a square-cut beard. He grinned. "This time I will finally beat you, Glóin's son," he said.

"Aye, and rivers will run backward and Elves will live underground and Dwarves will roost in trees, Laín's son," Gimli retorted, rather rudely. Fíli and Kíli immediately broke out into snickers, and Thorin smiled despite himself.

"I see what you mean about his temper," he murmured to Fíli, who flashed him a quick smile.

"That idiot isn't going to beat him," Kíli said, before peering back at Thorin. "Is he?"

Thorin considered. Gimli was the better axeman, but Náli was more experienced and the other youngster, Lóni, had weight and reach on his side. "I don't know. Let us see how he fares."

Kíli needn't have worried. Gimli scythed the axe towards their feet, and they were forced to jump awkwardly to avoid it. Náli stumbled, and Gimli was on him in a second, tapping the flat of the blade against his teacher's head. "Dead," he said cheerfully.

"Aye, but so are you," Lóni growled behind him, and Fíli let out an involuntary cry as Lóni's axe came spinning towards Gimli's head. The redheaded Dwarf ducked and twirled, and his axe fairly danced as he slammed the butt directly into Lóni's belly, forcing all the air from his lungs.

"Yield?" Gimli demanded, his blade held to Lóni's throat.

Lóni nodded, his face sullen.

"That was well-fought," Thorin said, as Gimli leaned his axe against a weapons-rack. Then he walked over to a table where cloths were folded for the students, and bread and ale sat waiting for Náli. There he took up a towel and began to wipe down his sweaty face. "Very well-fought. Frerin was not wrong about his talent."

"I wonder how he does with a sword," Fíli said, tilting his head speculatively. "I wish I'd –look out!"

For Lóni had pushed himself from the ground and launched himself towards Gimli's back, his axe held above his head to deliver a mighty stroke. "Sudûn!" Thorin roared, forgetting himself in his outrage. "Shekith!"

Gimli moved instantaneously. He picked up a cup of ale and span, throwing it full in Lóni's face. As the other boy sputtered, Gimli lashed out with his fist and caught him square on the nose.

"Ikhuzh!" Náli snarled, and Gimli froze, his hand drawn back for another blow. "Gimli, Lóni, what is the meaning of this?"

Lóni, clutching his bloody nose, muttered, "I wanted to finish the duel."

"The duel was finished!" Náli stamped over and pulled at the young Dwarf's ear. "You yielded the match to Gimli, and so lost the contest. To attack an unarmed Dwarrow with his back turned is a coward's move, and I have taught you better than that. Laín will be hearing of this, mark my words!"

Lóni winced. Gimli folded his arms. "And me?"

Náli glared at him. "You could have disarmed him easily, and yet you chose to strike him. A just warrior does not toy with a weaker opponent simply to enjoy it. Neither does he indulge in petty revenge!"

Gimli's scowl was ferocious.

"Gimli, you will clean this mess you have made. Lóni," and Náli shook the ear pinched between his fingers, "you will be on a week of night-watches, and I will see all of you at dawn." A groan rose from the assembled ranks of students. "The rest of you have these two to thank for our early start! Let that teach you to think before behaving so rashly in future. Am I understood?"

Both lads hung their heads. "Yes, Náli."

"Then go to it," Náli said, and released Lóni's ear to stalk out of the door. "At sunrise, remember."

The assembled youngsters moved out after him, and several dark glares were aimed at Gimli and Náli as they left. Gimli glared back before turning to his opponent, who still clutched his bloody nose.

"All right, sorry," he said ungraciously, and picked up another cloth. "Here. No, don't tilt your head back, you'll swallow your own blood and it will make you ill. Lean forward, it will clot eventually. What in Mahal's name were you doing?"

"Wanted to win for once," Lóni grumbled, but he let Gimli press the cloth to his face. "I have some skill, but no-one can see it in the shadow of yours."

"You're an idiot," said Gimli bluntly. "You're good, yes, but still an idiot. You're bigger than me, and you could have had me if you'd kept me at a distance. Look, why don't we practice together? I could use a taller opponent anyway. I want to surprise Dwalin when I see him next."

Lóni laughed sourly. "I am no Dwalin."

"You'll be as tall as him, so I don't see why not," Gimli said, and shook his head. "Idiot."

"Yes, I'm aware," Lóni growled. "I don't need you to keep pointing it out."

"Hold that to your nose, I have to clean up all this ale." Gimli eyed the mess and grabbed another cloth before hunkering down on his knees and beginning to soak up the spilled ale. "I'm not going to apologise for being good," he said as he scrubbed, blowing a lock of fiery hair out of his eyes. "Neither am I going to feel sorry for a Dwarf who tried to axe me in the back! But a training partner with more strength and reach than me – now, _that_ is of interest. You can get the recognition you crave so badly when you knock me on my back fair and square. What do you say?"

Lóni's eyes had lit up behind his bloody cloth. "Aye, as you say, that is of interest," he replied.

"Then we have an agreement." Gimli sat up and threw the soaking cloth from the ring, taking another one. "Ugh, I smell like a brewery and I haven't had a drop! This work makes a Dwarf thirsty. If your nose has dried up, shall we go share a cup at Borin's?"

"I shouldn't," Lóni said, and his shoulders slumped. "I have night-duty."

"Ah, yes. Another time then. Go on, get washed up. We'll begin tomorrow, is that to your liking?"

Lóni nodded, and then attemped to smile. "Thank you Gimli. I'm sorry."

"Aye, and so you should be, making me spill all this fine ale. Such a waste!" Gimli laughed, and waved as Lóni left.

"Is old Borin's tavern still running then?" Kíli wondered, and then quailed at Thorin's sudden dark look. Fíli gave a weak little laugh and hushed Kíli with a hand over his mouth.

"Just... an academic interest, Thorin."

"Yes, never stepped foot in it ourselves," Kíli said, muffled by Fíli's palm.

"Or broke a table."

"Or a lamp."

"Or Borin's teeth."

"Lies and conjecture."

"Must have been two other Dwarves that _looked_ like us."

"Yes, and with the same names. Imposters, no doubt."

Thorin rolled his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for patience.

Gimli kept scrubbing at the wet stones, his shoulders bunching. He stopped at one point to scratch at his short red beard, before attacking the floor once more. Thorin stepped forward, seeing his chance.

"Gimli," he said, and stopped in cautious surprise as Gimli paused momentarily, his head cocking as though hearing something just out of earshot. Thorin looked back to Fíli and Kíli, who nodded eagerly.

"Gimli," he said again, and once more Gimli stopped. This time, however, the lad pushed up onto his knees and frowned.

"Is someone there?"

"Barufûn," Thorin said, and crouched down before the young man. "Your cousins are with you, Gimli son of Glóin. Fíli, Kíli and Thorin. We are here."

Gimli blinked, and then he shook his head sharply. "Surely I can't get drunk from a few fumes," he said to himself, and Kíli snorted.

"You're not drunk, lad," Thorin said, and shook his own head in disbelief. "We're here."

Gimli squinted, peering straight past Thorin. "Must be imagining things. I can't be drunk and I do not think I am mad..."

Fíli smacked his forehead with his palm.

Thorin resisted the urge to do the same. "Not mad either, cousin. Mahal grants us this, that we can see you from beyond the mists. To me he gave a greater gift. Some may hear me."

"I'm of Durin's line," Gimli continued, his brow creasing with worry. "I _could_ be mad. I'm too young for it, though."

"Steady," Fíli said quietly, putting a hand on Thorin's shoulder as he shook with anger and shame.

"You are not mad," he said shortly. "Only very, very _dense_."

Gimli's eyes narrowed, and he began to look around the room. "If this is you, Lóni," he snarled, "then I must say it is in very poor taste!"

"Oh for Durin's sake!" Kíli exclaimed.

"Not a prank either." Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and reined in his temper. "I am Thorin, son of Thráin. I was killed three months ago and passed beyond the borders of Middle-Earth. The Halls of Mahal keep my sister-sons and I until the worlds' ending. From this place we may see our friends and kin when we wish - and we are standing right before you, you young fool!"

Gimli sprang to his feet, the colour draining from his face. "King Thorin," he breathed, and then he rubbed at his head. "Why... why did I say that?"

"Careful, Uncle," Kíli said in a tense undertone.

He nodded, and then grasped his nephews' hands before bending all his concentration on the perplexed boy before them. "Gimli, remember the Lady Dís. Remember the woman whom you called Aunt, and now sits alone. She lost more than you, kinsman. Remember the Lady Dís."

"He was her brother," Gimli whispered, and then he pulled at his vibrant hair. "Oh, I am such a fool! Of course my conscience would not let me rest until I had seen her. I lost my cousins, but she lost all she had left in the world. Not drunk, not mad, not tricked, but surely a blind and selfish fool!"

"He... he thinks you're his conscience," said Fíli blankly.

Thorin looked at him helplessly.

Gimli bit down on his lip and then looked at his tunic and ale-stained trousers. "Can't be wearing these to visit a Princess," he muttered, and, gathering the wet cloths and his axe from the rack, he strode purposefully from the training room.

Following him, the three dead Dwarrows were able to see just how empty Ered Luin had become. Gimli led them through familiar tunnels and corridors that had once bustled with activity. Now it seemed that Thorin's Halls were slowly emptying once more; only the young and the old seemed to be left. Gimli halted outside a set of apartments that Thorin recognised as Glóin's, and he pushed open the door. "Mother!" he yelled as he entered. "Gimrís? Where are you?"

"Gimli!" hissed a feminine voice, and Glóin's wife Mizim thrust her head through a door. "What sort of racket do you call this, storming in here and shouting!"

" _That's_ Glóin's wife?" said Kíli, stunned.

"Aye, Glóin's silver jewel. He told you she was a famous beauty, didn't he?" Thorin smiled. Mizim had broken many a heart before finally finding her One in Glóin. Even Thorin had wasted a few sighs over her. Her figure was still strong, sturdy and proud and her eyes were still exquisite, though fine lines now traced the corners and white threaded through her pale hair and beard.

"How'd a boulder-faced shrub like Glóin end up with a Dwarrowdam like _that?"_ Fíli said, eyes wide.

"He was kind, honest and respectful," Thorin said. "And he made her laugh."

Gimli batted away his mother's hands. "Not now, 'amad, I need my good tunic! I need the golden hair clasps Grandfather made me! Where do you keep them?" Gimli threw the sodden rags into the fire and began to rummage through carven boxes and upon shelves. "Gimrís? Can I borrow your comb?" he hollered as he continued to search.

A young Dwarrowdam of maybe fifty years stumbled into the room, rubbing at her eyes. Her hair was just as fiery as Gimli's, and her face was as lovely as her mother's, even though it was creased in a scowl.

  


_Gimrís, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/54983691616/my-take-on-a-character-of-a-dwarrowlady-that-is)  
_  


Fíli immediately fell silent, his jaw dropping open.

"I'm in love," Kíli declared fervently.

"I saw her first," Fíli snarled.

Thorin gritted his teeth. "You are both _dead."_

Kíli gave him a wounded look. "That was uncalled for."

"Brother," the lass growled. "I hope you have your axe on you, because after waking me you are going to _need it."_

"Gimrís, not now! The comb, please – I need it, I must look my best."

"You smell like a tavern," Mizim said with a disdainful sniff.

Gimli growled under his breath. "I have not had a single drink! I threw Náli's ale in the face of an idiot hothead – oh, never mind, I'll find it all myself!"

"All right then, you ill-tempered bear, you can use my comb. What's the big occasion?" Gimrís said.

Gimli made a soft exclamation of satisfaction and brought out a soft blue formal tunic embroidered with gold and black thread. He looked up. "I must see the Lady Dís," he said seriously. "I have neglected a duty."

Mizim's eyebrows drew together. "The Lady Dís does not wish to see anyone, and what duty?"

"Well, not a duty then, but a kindness," he said, dragging off his tunic and struggling into the new one. It was slightly too small, but Gimli either did not care or notice. "I realised that we are her only family this side of the Misty Mountains, and it falls to us to comfort her. We lost our King and our Princes, but she has lost her brother and her sons. With all else she has lost, it is no surprise she locks herself away except for the morning audiences. She is utterly alone, and I think I should see her. Fíli and Kíli were my friends, and they would want me to."

"Told you," Fíli murmured. Thorin grunted.

Mizim looked uncertain, but Gimrís' face cleared as understanding dawned. "Do you think I should come too?" she asked.

"If you like," Gimli said, shrugging. "But perhaps one Dwarf at a time? I would not wish for a crowd if I were her."

"That's very thoughtful, Gimli," Mizim began, "but do you suppose she would even wish to see you? She has not spoken to you since you were quite young."

"Aye, and I called her 'Aunt' and she bounced me on her knee, I remember," Gimli said, and splashed water over his face. "If she does not wish to see me, then I will try again another time. She has been left alone all this time and so she must feel that she _is_ alone. She should know that we think of her and that she is still cared for as a Dwarf, not just as the Regent of Thorin's Hall. I am not her son or her brother, but I am family and I care. And I loved them too."

In the silence that followed, the grip of Fíli and Kíli's hands tightened on Thorin's to the point of pain.

"Well, I'll go next time," Gimrís said, and then tutted at her brother's wet and wild mane. "You look ridiculous. Sit and I'll braid it for you, you look like a pony caught in the rain."

Gimli's lips quirked, and then he looked up at his mother. "I may not be home for dinner," he said.

"I suppose you must do as you feel you must," Mizim said, and then kissed Gimli's forehead before smoothing the tunic down over his shoulders. "You're a good boy, my son."

He squirmed away, batting at her with wet hands. "Mum, I am sixty-three soon! I am not a boy!"

She snorted. "You are _such_ a boy, Gimli. I'll find your clasps. I hope you still fit your engraved boots."

"Come on, you haystack, let's make you less hideous." Gimrís said, brandishing her comb. Gimli gave her the fed-up look of an older sibling before sitting before his sister. She began to weave his hair into a long, thick plait that followed his spine. "Great Mahal, Gimli, what are you keeping in here? It feels like a nest!"

"I had practice!" he said, scowling.

"You must have been fighting a thornbush. And those trousers don't suit that tunic either. You won't be able to wear it much longer, you know. Your shoulders are about to come through the seams."

"Not my fault," Gimli said defensively. "I grew too fast."

"You ate too much, you mean," she said, and he sent an elbow back into her stomach.

"I had to eat, I was growing!"

She pulled his hair sharply in retaliation. "I'm sure. Wear the black trousers, the ones with the patterns sewn into the hems. Did you want to wear the steel ear-cuffs?

"I should, they were a gift from Cousin Balin," he said, and ran a curious hand over the top of his hair. She smacked his hand with the comb.

"Not til I'm done," she snapped. "Keep your mitts off it."

"Gimrís, you are a tyrant," he grumbled. "Do you think I will still fit that belt with the garnets?"

She snickered. "Only if you wore it around your fat head. Hold still, stop wriggling! You're making it all crooked."

Fíli and Kíli were snickering as well, and even Thorin could not help the small sound of amusement that escaped him at the sight of Gimli's thoroughly irritated face.

With a loud sigh Gimli subsided, his thumbs plucking at the ale-stained patches on his trousers. Mizim returned, her hands full, and together mother and daughter threaded a set of golden barrel-clasps into Gimli's bright hair. Then Gimli struggled into a new pair of black trousers (also slightly too small) and took out his plain and serviceable ear-cuffs and replaced them with a set which Thorin recognised as Balin's familiar work. A pair of warm fur-covered boots with engraved toe-guards followed, and the belt was found and promptly rejected.

"Will I serve?" Gimli said, holding out his arms.

Mizim smiled at him, and threaded two golden beads onto the short tufting braids of his beard. "You look very handsome," she told him.

"For a troll," Gimrís added cheerfully.

"Gimrís!" Mizim snapped. Her daughter rolled her eyes.

"Fine, sorry. You look nice, big brother." Then she punched him lightly in the arm. "It seems you're not a complete waste of space; you're doing a good thing. I get to wear the gold clasps next time, all right?"

"Only if I get to braid your hair," Gimli said, a wicked glint in his eye. Mizim gave the long-suffering sigh of all parents.

"Get moving before you grow out of your clothes altogether," she said. "I'll leave bread and cheese out for you in case you come home late and haven't eaten, all right?"

"Bread and cheese?" Gimli said plaintively, and then straightened at Gimrís' amused look. "I mean, thank you, Mum. Thank you both!"

With that he was moving, striding purposefully from the family's apartment and making his way through the city to the lowest levels. He did not falter. "Where are we?" Thorin hissed, following closely behind. "I do not recognise this part of the Halls."

"Don't tell me you're lost!" said Kíli.

Fíli hid a smile behind his hand. "The iron mines begin just to our left, and the audience chambers are coming up ahead. Our old rooms are not far, but these passages weren't really used by any except the miners. Gimli must have done some work here."

"Mining?" Thorin frowned. "His father is a Lord. He does not need to mine for a living."

"Thorin, _everyone_ worked, even you. You took on blacksmithing, I was a jeweller like Mum, and Kíli was a bowyer. No doubt Óin took Gimli into the mines; I know he still treats the miners now and then for their injuries."

Thorin abruptly recalled that Óin had originally damaged his hearing in a mining explosion. "Ah. But a miner? He does not seem to have the patience for iron excavation and refinement."

"He wanted to be a surveyor or a stone-mason when we were little," Kíli said. "He likes caves and rocks."

"He would be in raptures over the Chamber of Sansûkhul," Fíli agreed.

"Hmm." That was unusual. "He does not have a craft, then?"

"Time enough to choose a calling when I am old and can no longer swing an axe," Gimli murmured, startling them all. "There is so much to learn about the world. Why would I limit myself before I have found that which makes me happiest?"

"Shhh!" Kíli hissed.

"Durin's beard, he senses you so clearly," Fíli said, and he ran a hand through his hair. "I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it."

The corridors became familiar again, and a fluttering sense of apprehension began to claw at Thorin's belly. Gimli stopped at a painfully well-known door and pulled the new tunic straight, before taking a deep breath. "Here we go," he said to himself, and knocked.

It opened, and a Dwarf with the crossed axes of a guard upon his back peered out at Gimli. "Yes?" he grunted.

"Gimli, son of Glóin," Gimli said with a polite bow. "I am here to see the Lady Dís, if she will."

"The Lady sees no-one," the Dwarf said shortly, and began to close the door. It stopped on Gimli's heavy engraved boot, and the younger Dwarf gave the guard a pleasant smile.

"Announce me," he suggested. "Perhaps she will make an exception."

"Are you deaf, boy? The Lady sees no-one," the guard with impatience, and kicked Gimli's foot away.

"Perhaps I should make myself clearer," Gimli said, still smiling. "Gimli of the Line of Durin, here to see his cousin, if she will."

The guard's sneer dropped like a stone. "I'll announce you."

"You do that."

"All right," Thorin said. "Now I believe the boy is related to me."

Kíli's laugh was a little high and shrill.

Gimli waited, his fingers fidgeting over the embroidery at the edge of the too-small tunic. Wisps of his short thick beard were already beginning to escape the gold beads, and he chewed on his lower lip absently. The guard returned with a perplexed look on his face, and he eyed Gimli with suspicion.

"She'll see you," he said. "But don't expect her to be pleasant."

"I don't expect her to be anything other than as she is," said Gimli with admirable calmness. "What's your name?"

The Dwarf raised an eyebrow. "Anchar son of Borchar."

"Thank you, Anchar."

The guard's other eyebrow rose. "You're welcome, boy."

"Kind, when he wishes to be," Thorin murmured, remembering Frerin's words. "Aye, and forgiving."

Anchar led Gimli to a room beside the audience chamber, and opened the door. "Gimli son of Gróin, Lady," he said respectfully, and nodded to the lad to enter.

"Actually, it's Glóin," mumbled Gimli. "Gróin was my grandfather."

"I know who you are, child," came a voice. "Come in."

To the three children of Thráin, they had said, Mahal gave one a voice of golden thunder, one a voice of silver bells, but the third – the third had a voice of mithril and diamonds, more lovely than the voices of Elves and as pure as the snowmelt from the peak of the Mountain.

Dís' beautiful voice was dead. She sounded lifeless and hollow, her voice a dull echo of what it had once been. Gimli entered with a glance to the guard, and Anchar nodded to him once before closing the door. Dís was seated before a fire, her eyes fixed on the flames. She did not look up as the door clicked closed behind the guard.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Gimli walked further into the room, his dark eyes wide. "Hello, Aunt Dís," he said eventually.

"It has been a long time since you called me that, son of Glóin," rasped Dís.

"True," Gimli said. "I won't fit on your knee anymore."

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Indeed, you are no longer a child. Why are you here?"

Gimli blinked, and then he looked down at his hands. "You're not my Aunt," he said slowly. "You're my cousin. And we... we lost some of our family. There's just me and Gimrís and you, because everyone else..."

"Is dead," Dís croaked, and finally looked up from the fire. "Everyone is dead. My whole family, but for cousins like you. My sons, my last brother, my One, my father... we were so proud, so strong. Well, Mahal has punished us for our pride, at least."

"No!" Gimli blurted, and he took another couple of quick steps towards her. "Not everyone is dead!"

"You?" Dís laughed. It was utterly unbearable to hear. "Your sister? Balin, Dwalin, your father and uncle? You are not my family. We are relatives, no more than that. No, my family is dead and gone. The line of Thrór is ended."

"They're not all dead," Gimli repeated, and he lifted his eyes to hers. "There's you."

She froze, and then sagged. "Me."

"And that's why I'm here," Gimli said, and took one more step. "Because there's you. You're not my mother or father or uncle or sister. We're not close. But you're my family, and I once called you my Aunt. I would call you Aunt again, if you would let me."

Fíli took a sharp, short breath. "Careful, cousin," he breathed.

"Is this pity?" Dís stood, and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She looked like a wild woman, her dark eyes red and hard. "Pity for an old woman left alone? You can keep it!"

"Not pity," Gimli said, defiantly standing his ground. "I would not dare pity you, Lady."

"Then what?"

He hesitated, and then blurted, "I don't know. It is hard to put into words. The others – in my training classes – they do not even speak of them. But they were my friends, my cousins, and I miss them! I wish I had gone with them; I wish my father had let me. I'm just a remote cousin, not a Prince, not a warrior, I'm not important - but I have some skill, I could have done something! They should have _lived_. They should have lived to see their home restored!"

Dís stared at him for a long moment, her face draining of all colour as she took in his red cheeks and raised chin, his balled fists, and the angry tremor of his voice. Then she staggered backwards and collapsed back into her chair.

"Mother!" Kíli cried, and turned to Thorin. "Help her!"

"Wait," Fíli said harshly. "Wait."

Gimli acted immediately. He rushed forward and poured a cup of water from the jug upon a side table and knelt before her, holding it up. "Lady Dís?" he said, his voice more gentle than Thorin could ever had imagined coming from the mouth of this brash young Dwarf. "I am sorry. Here."

She took the cup with trembling fingers. "You mourn them," she said faintly. "You mourn _them,_ not your Princes. Your friends."

"Aye," Gimli said, and lowered his eyes. "My cousins. And, despite what you say, my family."

"Kíli pulled your hair," she whispered. "Fíli hid your toys."

"And I kicked his shins for it, too," Gimli said, and smiled at his feet. "I miss them. Fíli hid my toys, but he showed me his new swords when he had finished his training, and taught me how to use the throwing axe, and how to spot the flaws in a gem, and all the different ways to knot rope. Kíli pulled my hair but he also gave me his old drafting tools when he had finished with them, and showed me how to play the fiddle and how to carve and string a bow. They were the ones who first took me drinking and it was Fíli who guided my steps and Kíli who held my hair back when I became sick. They looked after me. I was only their loud young cousin scurrying at their heels, but they looked after me. I looked up to them."

  
__

Gimli and Dís, by [miliabyntite](http://miliabyntite.tumblr.com/)  


"They were fond of you," she said thickly. Gimli lifted his head and their eyes met – two pairs of dark eyes, the eyes of Thráin, the dark eyes passed down from Náin the Second, last King of Khazad-dûm.

Kíli's eyes.

"Your brother made me my very first axe, for my fiftieth naming day," Gimli remembered, and Dís huffed.

"Plain as plain, no doubt."

"Not a single decoration on haft or blade," Gimli agreed, "but perfectly balanced."

" _Thank_ you," Thorin managed through a throat blocked with his heart.

"He never had much patience," she said, her eyes growing distant. "He could wait a century for a sign, but hated spending the time to put more than three braids in his hair."

Gimli snorted. "Oh, Kíli's hair."

To Thorin's amazement, she laughed – rusty and unused, but a true laugh. "Kíli's damned hair. I used to struggle with him every morning to at least get most of it out of his eyes. Mahal only knows how he ever aimed at a target through that curtain."

"I feel I should be offended," Kíli said.

Fíli gave him a sad half-grin. "The truth offends no-one but you, brother."

"Don't look at me," Thorin added. "I remember the fits you had when your mother brought out a comb."

"I miss them," Gimli said again, and sighed heavily. "No-one understands why I am so angry, or why I train every day until I am exhausted. I struck another in the nose today, and I should know better, even if he does not. I have not been to the mines in weeks. I sat at the table in Borin's where Kíli and Fíli used to drink with me. The jokes are still carved into the wood, and Borin's teeth are still missing. I felt as though I could reach out and touch them, so close was that presence. But they are gone, and I am here, and it should not be this way."

"He felt a presence?" Kíli said, and blinked.

"Did _you_ go to Borin's with Gimli?" Fíli hissed, and Thorin plastered a look of innocence on his face. Apparently it wasn't terribly convincing, because Fíli snorted. "You old hypocrite."

"I forgot that there were others who knew us," Dís said wonderingly, her fingers clutching her cup. "Not as heirs of Durin's line, but as Fíli and Kíli, sons of Víli and Dís."

"Fíli and Kíli, my cousins and friends," Gimli said in a low voice. "I should have been there."

"I would not have used your life to buy theirs," she said, and her other hand reached out and touched Gimli's thick red hair. "Don't be so hasty to throw it away, nidoyith."

He smiled ruefully. "I'm not, not really. But what is a miner, a banker's son, compared to a Prince? What is my life compared to what theirs has bought?"

"A miner, a banker's son," she said, "can have a great heart. A miner and banker's son will go on to do great things, Gimli son of Glóin."

She set down the cup of water, and took Gimli's hands. "I would like it if you called me Aunt again," she said softly.

Gimli said nothing, but his hands tightened on hers.

She leaned forward until her brow briefly rested on his, and then she pulled back. "Will you tell me more?"

"Gladly." Gimli settled at her feet and launched into a tale of three Dwarflings and a hammer 'borrowed' from Dwalin. Dís listened closely, and laughed at the terrible predicament the three found themselves in; at the clever plots put into practice that only compounded the problem tenfold; at Dwalin's outrage when the hammer was finally recovered and the terrible injustice of the punishment (polishing every weapon he owned until it gleamed). Her eyes were glossy, but she no longer wept. Her hand remained on Gimli's vibrant hair, and every now and then she stroked it absently.

Finally Gimli finished, and looked up at her. "Aunt Dís?"

"Mmm?"

"Gimrís said she would come with me next time. Would you like that?"

She blinked as though coming awake, and then she smiled. It was still tinged with her fathomless sorrow, but she no longer looked or sounded more dead than alive. "That would be lovely. How old is your sister now?"

"Fifty-four," Gimli said with a shudder.

"Ah, the fifties. I feel for your poor mother, with two Dwarrows under the age of seventy in her home."

"I am very mature!" Gimli protested, and Dís laughed softly.

"Indeed you are. Bring Gimrís, and I will tell you of the time my brothers and I stole Dwalin's favourite toy Oliphaunt."

Gimli choked on his breath, and then laughed loudly and merrily. "Aye, that sounds like a tale not to be missed!"

She stood, bringing him to his feet, and then touched the seams that strained over his shoulders. "You have grown out of this tunic. Perhaps Fíli's -" she stopped short on her son's name and then closed her eyes, her lips tightening.

"Give him mine, Dís," Thorin said suddenly. "Keep your children's fine things and the memories they hold. He'll be as broad as me; give him my feast-day tunic. I never wore the thing anyway."

She frowned. Both Fíli and Kíli turned to Thorin, their eyebrows high and their mouths open in surprise.

"Aunt Dís?" Gimli ventured.

"My apologies, akhûnîth," she said, opening her eyes and squeezing his shoulder. "I was lost in thought. My brother's things still gather dust and moths, and you will be of a size across the shoulders in a few years. You should have them."

"No," he protested. "I could not wear the clothes of a King, it would be..."

"But you could wear the clothes of a cousin," she said, and squeezed his shoulder again. "I will have them sent to you. No, don't refuse! He would be glad to be rid of them; Thorin hated formality. Too many painful memories. He'd much rather wear his armour and spit in the eye of public opinion."

Gimli closed his mouth. "If you say so," he said dubiously, "then I will take them with thanks. My mother is tearing her hair out trying to keep me decent lately."

She tugged a braid at his chin, just as she used to do to Fíli's moustache. "I know the feeling. Kíli used to grow out of a tunic as I watched - it nearly drove me to drink."

Gimli winced, and Fíli rubbed at his mouth. "I know _that_ feeling," he said in sympathy. "Ouch."

"I should go," Gimli said reluctantly. "It's late."

He made to bow, but she stopped him by pulling him into an embrace. "Until next time, Gimli."

He stiffened for a moment in shock, before hugging her tightly. "Soon. The day after tomorrow? I have practice in the afternoon, but..."

"I look forward to it," she said, and drew back to lightly touch his Durin brow. "Go, your mother will be worried."

He nodded and made to leave. Dís stopped him at the door by calling his name. "Aye?" he said, turning back around.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Your use-name fits you well."

He gawked, forgetting himself for yet another moment, before he grinned broadly at her and left.

Thorin watched his sister sink back down into her chair. She rubbed her face with her hands and sat motionless for a few moments. Fíli and Kíli pressed closely to his sides as they stood, not three feet away from her, and yet as unreachable as Eärendil's star. She let out a long, shuddering breath and then she gripped her knees tightly with her hands.

"Well, brother mine," she said to herself. "Let's see what you have stored away then."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._
> 
>  
> 
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Namadith – little sister  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Nidoyith – Young boy  
> Nidoyîth – Young boys  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Akhûnîth – young man  
> 'amad - mother  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Sudûn – Danger (man)  
> Shekith – young coward  
> khazâd-bâhel – Dwarf-Friend.
> 
> _Thank you so much to all you wonderful reviewers and kudos-ers: it really makes my day!_


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hover your cursor over the text for the translation!**

Thorin finished his knife, and began work on a pair of boot-daggers. Just to thumb his nose at Dís, he embedded chips of emerald in the handles and engraved the patterns for 'honoured family' along the blade. He _could_ be decorative when he chose. He ended up gifting them to Fíli, and was therefore obliged to create a set for Kíli as well, lest he get deafened by complaints of favouritism.

And then, of course, Frerin wanted a set as well.

Nothing else changed in Mahal's Halls. Nothing ever changed in Mahal's Halls.

Thorin had been a very active Dwarf his whole life. He had very rarely been stationary, forever journeying or working or building or planning. Remaining in one place was proving difficult. He turned his hand to more and more projects, but very little kept him satisfied. As the years turned and the second anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies came and went, he began to forge the links for an entire hauberk of mail simply to give himself something to do that was not staring wistfully at the waters of Gimlîn-zâram, longing in vain for the colours of Middle-Earth.

Two years, and Erebor was becoming a hub of activity. His Company had risen to prominence, due to their great wealth and the reputation their Quest had given them. Ori was working to restore the histories that had been damaged by the dragon. His people had so little of their history left to them after wars, dragons, Balrogs and exile after exile that it was a blessing there was anything left at all. Dori had become a very powerful member of the Weaver's Guild, and was tireless in promoting Guild interests. Nori had set up a gambling den and tavern of some scandalous repute, and sat with his ears open each night, passing every tidbit of information to Balin.

Bofur was a great favourite amongst the few children of Esgaroth who had settled in Dale. He had begun a large venture, trying to establish the toy-markets of Dale that had once been the wonder of the North. Bifur worked beside him most of the week, but on all other occasions Bifur could be found with Ori. The young Dwarf was trying to help Bifur regain his words, but the process was very slow. Bifur's understanding of Ancient Khuzdul was now confused and he frequently used a completely unrelated word when he meant something totally different. He would then revert to Iglishmêk, but all too often he could not find the right signs. With Ori's help he had shown a little improvement, and Bofur and Bombur assisted when they had the time.

Bombur was king of the marketplace of Erebor. None could even come close. He sat at his shop and watched every sweet cake and meat pie and jam roly-poly walk off the shelves. Bilbo's larder that night in Bag End had certainly made an impression, and Thorin recognised several Hobbitish dishes alongside more traditional Dwarvish fare. Bombur's limp was no better, but his walking staff had become a sort of calling card amongst the other traders. He often had a string of linked sausages or a bag of sweets hanging from the end.

Óin was still being kept busy with the wounded of the battle. No Dwarf or Man was still in danger, but many had sustained complications. He had appropriated a room that Thorin vaguely remembered as being a guardsman's barracks, and had outfitted it as an infirmary. There he doctored and cared for those Dwarves whose families could not, and trained a small group of younger Dwarves in herb-lore and medicine with all the irritability and snappishness of a drillmaster.

Balin and Glóin could be seen at loggerheads most days. Dáin had approved one fourteenth of the treasure to go to Bard for the restoration of Dale and Esgaroth, and the new Master of Laketown was becoming rather demanding and grasping when it came to the selection of the gold and jewels. Glóin strenuously disagreed with using priceless heirlooms and historical artefacts centuries old as no more than currency in their trading with the Men and Elves. Balin shook his beard angrily and asked if Glóin would be the first to volunteer to eat them? Glóin would bellow that this wasn't a siege and it wasn't about the damned _gold,_ this was about their heritage and traditions; would they give up their history and culture so readily? Balin would ask, cold as ice, if Glóin really thought that _Balin_ of all Dwarves was not aware of the cultural significance of some of the items, Balin had watched much of it forged with his own two eyes, had known the makers himself, and hadn't Balin been at Azanulbizar for Mahal's sake? Glóin would bristle, his beard doubling in size (which was quite a sight) and snarl that Glóin had been at Azanulbizar as well, what had Azanulbizar to do with it? Balin would seethe, and Glóin would fume, and the next day they would do it again. Thorin watched this with a sinking sense of déjà-vu.

Dwalin drank at Nori's tavern, and did not speak often. He ran his troops with whiplike efficiency, and was fast gaining a reputation as totally humourless and a really dangerous fellow to cross. He had added three new tattoos to his collection – one over each brow and another spanning the bridge of his nose. Thorin almost choked when he saw them, and his heart reached out to his old friend. They were the symbols chosen for Thorin, Fíli and Kíli at their births and inscribed on their beads and clasps. He spent all his time training his soldiers, working the patrols and organising the rotas. His deputy was a Blacklock Dwarrowdam named Orla; stout, stern and nearly as severe as himself.

Erebor was depressing, and Thorin was restless.

He tried to watch Bilbo, puttering around his garden doing something incomprehensible to tomato plants, and failed. He fled within seconds.

He ended up watching his fiery young cousin more and more often. Gimli was amusing, and he was also very rarely motionless. The lad seemed never to stop, tirelessly moving from mine to training room to Dís' chamber to his home, laughing and shouting and roaring the whole time. He began to put on bulk quickly when the mine supervisor started him on hauling ore to the refinery. Simultaneously, his training grew more intensive and he began to work with the heavy double-bladed battle axe rather than the single-bladed spinning axe. True to all predictions, he grew into Thorin's tunic in a matter of months. The lad would never be tall, but he made up for it in sheer muscle.

Dís and Mizim seemed to be getting along splendidly. It was an intimidating thought.

Every now and then, Thorin would catch a glimpse of that curious, perceptive and compassionate soul at the heart of the lad. The day Lóni knocked Gimli down, he immediately sprang to his feet and grabbed Lóni's arms and began to dance in triumph. "You did it!" he crowed. "Flat on my arse and no mistake! Told you that you could do it!"

Lóni grinned sheepishly as his defeated opponent celebrated his victory far more enthusiastically than himself.

Gimli even began to show some signs of a rather poetic disposition, singing to himself as he dragged cart after cart of iron ore from the mines to the upper chambers where he poured them into the vast cauldrons for refining. He would make up little chants to keep the work from becoming dull, their beat echoing with his footsteps along the dark tunnels. Thorin had found himself humming along more than once, and had even caught himself singing one as a hammering song as he forged yet another link for his chainmail hauberk.

Death had (unsurprisingly) slowly become a rather numbing routine, and so when Glóin, Bofur and Bombur suddenly disappeared from Erebor, Thorin was caught utterly by surprise. He found them camped beyond Mirkwood on the plains north of Beorn's house. Their ponies stood grazing in the glade behind them, and their bedrolls surrounded a happily blazing fire.

"How many?" Glóin said, astonished.

"Eleven," Bombur said with a little blush. "Oh, no – it'll be twelve by now. Alrís will have given birth to the last, what... a year and a half ago?"

"It'll be two years by the time we reach Ered Luin," remarked Bofur.

"Sweet merciful Mahal, how does she do it?" Glóin muttered. "I could barely stand having two crying bairns in the house, let alone twelve!"

"Well, the eldest is sixty soon. She and the older lads help with the wee ones."

"Sixty?" Glóin gave him an amused look. "You and Alrís got started early, didn't you?"

Bombur's blush deepened.

"Your wife has all my admiration," Glóin said, stoking at his merry fire. " _Twelve,_ Durin save us. How did you keep them all fed and clothed?"

Bombur shrugged. "I'm a cook, Alrís is a tanner. We managed."

"Bifur and I helped," Bofur said. "Still, our shares are going to come in right handy. Little Birur or Bofrís aren't going to grow up poor like we did."

Glóin frowned slightly, and he nodded without speaking. Thorin knew how he felt. The poverty of the Ur family had been very confronting when it was unearthed during the Quest, and though no Dwarf of the Blue Mountains had been wealthy, to come face-to-face with a truly poor family had only driven home the importance of their mission.

"Suppose you're looking forward to seeing your two?"

"Aye, my bold lad and my lovely little lass," Glóin said and smiled. "Mizim wrote. Gimrís has begun an apprenticeship in glass-blowing, and apparently Gimli has made friends with the Lady Dís. The audacity of that boy!"

"The Princess?" Bofur shared a glance with Bombur. "Now there's a surprise."

"I know, couldae knocked me down with a feather when I read it. And you, Bofur? Did you never think to wed?"

Bofur shrugged. "Always wanted to. Wanted a One, wanted kids, the whole vein of ore, you know. Been lookin' my whole life, but never found 'em. Not all of us are as lucky as you or Bombur. Guess I'm on my own."

Bofur looked so gloomy for a split second, he seemed like an entirely different Dwarf. Bombur put his hamlike hand on Bofur's shoulder before sending a quick glance to Glóin and shaking his head.

"Oh. Well, a pity that." Glóin stretched theatrically and then scratched at his leonine mane. "Should turn in soon, lads. Night's drawing on. I'll take first watch."

"And leave me with second? No fear!" Bombur said. "I'll take first, and you can get up in the middle of your sleep instead."

Thorin couldn't help but smile. This was an old argument: Second watch was the most unpleasant and least desirable of the three. No-one liked having to interrupt a sound sleep to stay awake for a few hours, and it led to itchy eyes and short fuses the next morning. In fact, on their first journey, 'second watch' had become shorthand for 'bad-tempered'.

"You had first watch last night, you lump," Bofur said and prodded his brother's side. "I'll take first, Glóin has second, and you can have third – and I'll expect breakfast to be ready for us when we wake!"

"Here now, I didn't-" Glóin began to protest, but subsided with a grumble when Bofur pointedly leaned back against a tree.

Bombur and Glóin settled into their bedrolls, and Bofur took out a whittling knife and a half-finished Dwarf warrior-toy. With a little lurch and a muffled laugh, Thorin recognised the unmistakable outline of Dwalin. "I hope you realise he will kill you," he told Bofur.

"Ah, he's a best seller, I'm makin' him famous," Bofur mumbled. Thorin shook his head.

"Lads?" Glóin said sleepily. "What's the first thing you're going to say to Bilbo when you see him?"

Bombur hummed for a moment and then mumbled, "ask for that cheesecake recipe."

"How did I know it was going to be something like that?" Bofur said, grinning.

"I like cheesecake," Bombur said with a shrug, and rolled over. "Then I'll be huggin' our Hobbit, and then we should have a little party."

"No burping, he doesn't like burping," Glóin said, his voice becoming slurred. "I'll be givin' him a hug too. Poor wee blighter, Dwarves coming and interrupting his life again. Never thought I'd look back on that party with such fondness. Then I'll be placin' myself and my family at his service for twenty generations..."

"'Obbits dun live that long. One Dwarf generation. Half."

"Oh. I didnae know that." Glóin fell silent, and then he said, "Well, I'll be huggin' him anyway. Bofur?"

"I'll be gettin' my hat back, to be sure," Bofur said, his knife busy carving a tattoo into the miniature Dwalin's brow. "An' aye, I'll give the little fellow a hug as well. Thought I'd make him a flute, y'know. In case that Hobbit-hole of his gets too quiet now and then."

"It'll be right fine to see him again," Bombur said drowsily.

"Agreed," Glóin said. "Well, night lads. Tomorrow's another day, and we'll be seein' old Beorn and his menagerie soon enough."

"Green food," shuddered Bofur. "Rest up, we'll need all our strength."

"Honey-cakes," Bombur mumbled, and dropped into a snore.

* * *

"Come in, come in!" Bilbo said, beaming so widely Thorin half-feared he was going to strain his face. "My goodness, look at you all, aren't you a sight for sore eyes! I suppose you're thirsty?"

"Aye, laddie," said Glóin, "but first there's a little something we all promised to do."

"What's that then? I hope my poor plumbing is safe this time – I've only just got it sorted out again, you know."

"We're makin' no promises when it comes to plumbing," said Bofur, grinning, and then the three Dwarves were picking Bilbo up and squeezing him tightly in a great hug. Bilbo squeaked loudly, before throwing his arms around as much of them as possible.

"Oh, you ridiculous Dwarves," he said mistily. "I have missed you. Now put me down - gently, if you please!"

Bombur smiled at him and wiped at his eyes with the long, thick plait that circled his neck. "You look well, Mister Baggins. Hardly changed a bit!"

"I get by, I get by," he said, thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and rocking back on his heels. Thorin noted that the buttons of the waistcoat were now gold, and that Bilbo's hair was a little longer, and his eyes were a little older and sadder. "I'll go broach a barrel of ale. It's from the Ivy Bush, you know. Finest beer in the Westfarthing! I think I have a barrel of Old Toby stored away as well. I'll check. Oh! Do make yourselves at home. Well, you usually do, don't you?" He laughed.

"Not a shy bunch, as a rule," Bofur agreed.

"Will you be staying long?" Bilbo asked as he scurried away. His voice echoed through the smial, and the three Dwarves blinked and looked around in confusion. Stone-sense and a knowledge of echoes did not exactly translate to a Hobbit-Hole, it seemed.

"Perhaps a few nights," said Glóin. "It's been a long road."

"And it's not over yet," muttered Bombur, leaning heavily on his staff.

"Well, put down your packs, hang your cloaks on the pegs, take off those awful heavy boots of yours and go and warm yourselves up. The fire's lit, and I've plenty of food. We'll make a little celebration of it, what do you say?" Bilbo reappeared clutching an ale-barrel with both arms and struggling under its weight. Bofur took it from him and tucked it under an arm.

"Exactly our thinking," he said, and winked. "Hope you've a few more o' these."

Bilbo waved a hand. "Oh, enough, enough. We'll get by, won't we lads?"

"Aye, it'll do very nicely," Glóin said.

The four settled in. Bofur's hat was presented with much pomp (Bilbo had cleaned it off as well as he could, which was not very), an endless procession of food appeared, and soon a merry little gathering was progressing in Bilbo's drawing room. Again, very little had changed, except now there was a small Elvish dagger mounted over the fireplace instead of a Hobbit's portrait. Thorin could remember standing at that hearth and staring into the flames as he sang.

"He's had Sting engraved," he remarked to himself, ghosting his fingers over the little sword that had saved his life.

"Yes, I had that old thing engraved in Rivendell on the way home. Don't any of you complain about the Sindarin or I'll take it down and use it," said Bilbo placidly. "Pass the scones?"

Bofur looked about. "What's a scone?"

"Oh, call yourself my brother," Bombur said scornfully, and handed the basket to Bilbo (after snagging three for himself, of course).

"So, how are things under the Mountain?" Bilbo took a bite of his scone after liberally topping it with jam and cream. "Everyone is well, I hope? I receive a letter now and again – it quite scandalises my neighbours when a Ranger comes stomping up Bagshot Row – but it isn't the same as being there."

"We're all fine," Bofur said, spearing a slice of pork with his knife and taking a bite. "Everyone is as well as they were last you saw us."

"Some of us are better than we were, at least," Glóin said with a sigh, sitting back and taking out his pipe. "Ori's cough is gone, and he's now in charge of all official records and letters as well as sortin' the histories. Barely see the lad except at Council, he's that busy. Dwalin ended up losing the eye, but he sees so well out o' the other you'd never notice."

"Well, except for the diamond," Bombur added. "He got a new one made out o' glass, and they put a diamond in the centre. It shines when the light hits it just right. Scares the life outta the younger lads."

"Dori's waging a one-Dwarf hostile takeover of the Guilds, and Mahal help you if you get in his way. He'll end up Guildmaster at this rate, an' he's so strong everyone'll be too scared to cross him or else they'll get walloped on the head. An' poor ol' Óin is still bein' worked to the bone," Bofur continued. "He's training up a whole heap of the young 'uns. Says he's fed up with always havin' to patch idiots up, so there should be idiots to treat them."

"Bifur?" said Bilbo tentatively.

Bombur and Bofur looked at each other, and then shook their heads. "Not much improvement there I'm afraid, Bilbo," said Bombur sadly. "He drifts away more an' more often. Now and again he simply goes blank. We just wait for him to come back to us, and let him know we're glad when he does."

"I'm sorry," said Bilbo, and looked down at his scone.

"Well," Bofur said eventually. "Nori's made himself a new leg. It's quite a thing. He keeps a dagger in it, y'know. And a set of lockpicks. And a pack o' cards. And a leather cosh..."

Bilbo smiled. "He would."

"He's still keeping his tavern and reporting to Balin, and Balin's still keeping Dáin in the loop," said Bombur, stretching out his legs and passing Glóin the pipeweed. Glóin growled.

"Balin's still a pigheaded old fool," he grumbled, and Bofur made frantic 'don't ask!' signs behind his back. Bilbo nodded quickly and changed the subject.

"And the mountain? How's the restoration going?"

"It's still a lot of work," Glóin said, taking out his tinder and flint and lighting up. "Got the main public areas cleaned up and habitable, an' most o' the houses, but a lot of damage was done to the structural integrity o' the whole southern quarter, including the throne room. It's going to take decades to excavate and prop and rebuild. We've been usin' the battlements or the inner bailey for audiences most o' the time."

Bilbo swallowed, and Thorin looked away. The battlements of Erebor were not his favourite place in the world.

"And how about you, then, Mister Baggins?" Glóin said, and slapped the Hobbit's knee. "Been keeping well? Impressing all the little Hobbit lasses with your tales?"

"Ah-"

"Now, now, our Hobbit is a gentleman," said Bofur, a twinkle in his eye. "He'd never be kissin' an' tellin'."

"I, er..."

"Look at him blush!" Bombur snorted. "Red as a ruby and no mistake."

"Actually," Bilbo managed to say, "I don't suppose I shall ever marry, and I don't really mind, to be honest."

"Oh," Bofur said, and tipped his head. "I'm sorry. Found her and lost her, did you?"

"Him," Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin's heart momentarily stuttered, and then it began to gallop.

  


  
  


Bilbo and Thorin, by [ lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/115449541321/actually-bilbo-managed-to-say-i-dont-suppose)

  


"Oh," said Glóin, and then put a careful hand on Bilbo's back. "I'm sorry, laddie."

Bilbo waved a hand. "It's all done and over now," he said, and smiled, though it was very wobbly. "It's not really the done thing around here, sad to say, and he wasn't... well, he couldn't... anyway. I'm odd enough as it is; I don't really need any more rumours flying about the place. Goodness knows he wasn't the type of fellow to settle here in Hobbiton. He'd have caused a general panic!"

"Not a Hobbit, was he?" said Bofur softly, and Bilbo stiffened.

"I'll... I'll just see to another barrel, shall I?"

He scurried out of the door, and Thorin stared after him. His head was spinning.

"I knew it," mumbled Bombur. "Knew it."

"Well, that's one mystery solved too late," said Glóin sadly, and puffed at his pipe, staring into the flames. "Funny though, isn't it? A Hobbit and a Dwarrow. I suppose I hoped he'd never figure it out. It would have been kinder for him never to know."

"Pair o' fools," said Bofur with unexpected viciousness, and Bombur patted his brother's shoulder.

"There now. As Bilbo said, it's all done and over. Not like there's anything to be done about it now."

"Found his One though, didn't he?" Bofur growled, and his hands tightened around his tankard. "Found him and they were right for each other but they waited too long an' they hurt each other without the chance to make it right. An' now it's all too late _,_ and they'll never be together."

"Bofur," Bombur began, and then gave up on words and dragged his brother into a bear-hug. Bofur was stiff at first, but eventually relaxed in Bombur's embrace.

"Birashagimi," Bofur eventually said, and Bombur chuckled.

"Westron, Bofur. You know it annoys Bilbo."

"Bilbo should be used to being annoyed by now," Bofur said, muffling his voice in Bombur's thick shoulder.

"Believe me, I am," Bilbo said dryly from the door, his hands wrapped around a couple of bottles. "What have you dreadful Dwarves been up to now?"

"Oh, terrible scurrilous things, you'd be amazed," Bofur said brightly, pushing himself away from Bombur and digging inside his jerkin. "Now, I made you a little somethin' on the way, where'd I put it..."

Bilbo set the bottles down and Bofur handed him the little polished flute. "Why, it's just like yours! Thank you, Bofur, how tremendously thoughtful!" He brought it to his lips and tried a few tuneless notes. The fourth squeaked loudly, and he jerked the flute away from his lips with wide eyes and a muttered Shire curse (ridiculously tame though they were). The three Dwarves fell over with laughter, and Bilbo cleared his throat and chuckled self-consciously. "Well, yes, perhaps that might take just a little more practice."

"I'll teach you a few songs before we go, eh?" Bofur said, and wiped at his eyes. "Then that way you won't scare away all the birds."

"Oh, I don't know," Bilbo said, smiling. "Rather an effective way to get rid of nosy visitors, wouldn't you say?"

Thorin's heart was still racing, and he stepped closer, standing behind Glóin's chair in order to watch Bilbo's face. The Hobbit had obviously been badly surprised by the question, and he hadn't quite regained his composure. His face was pale and there was a tightness around his eyes that hadn't yet dissipated.

Bilbo had only known thirteen Dwarves. Three of them were dead.

His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sound of the little wooden flute. Thorin's head fell into his hands.

No. No, it could not be so. Bilbo had been dear to him, yes, but...

He clenched his eyes tighter, and the stars devoured him and spat him back out into the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

His underground sense of time told him it was late, but Thorin could not move – did not move. He sat on his customary bench and listened to the thrashing of his heart against his ribcage, his mind flying to pieces.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there when a hand on his shoulder brought him back to himself. He raised his face from his hands, blinking his stinging eyes. His face felt rubbery and numb, and his heart had not slowed at all. In fact he felt rather light-headed.

"Uncle?" Kíli's voice said worriedly, and the boy's face swam into view.

"Did you know?" Thorin croaked.

"Did I know what?" Kíli said, confused. "I came to get you, it's dinner-time. You've missed the midday meal, and Grandmother..."

"About me," Thorin said, and licked his suddenly-dry lips. "And Bilbo."

Kíli frowned, and then, quick as Gandalf would light his staff, his expression became guarded. "What about you and Bilbo?"

"Don't toy with me!" Thorin roared, his voice bouncing from the beautiful limestone curtains and wings that cascaded over the walls. "Did you know?"

Kíli had stepped back at Thorin's sudden shout and his chin snapped up. "Yes," he said steadily, "everyone guessed. But nobody knew."

Thorin stared at his nephew and then turned away, his hands fisting in his hair. "Go now," he said through gritted teeth. His heart was about to smash its way through his chest. "I will not be eating."

"Uncle," Kíli said, taking a step forward before halting and sighing deeply. "At least you knew him," he said. "At least you had that."

"I knew nothing," Thorin said, voice cracking. "Fool that I am. I had him in my arms, and I could not see him!"

He sank back down on his bench and covered his face with his hands once more.

He could hear Kíli's boots scuffing along the stone of the Chamber, and then his nephew's hand tentatively touched his shoulder. He ruthlessly strangled the sob that tried to claw its way out of his throat.

"So you didn't know," said Kíli quietly. "That explains a few things then."

He sat beside Thorin, his hand still resting on his shoulder. "You know," Kíli said into the silence, "you always used to seem so perfect to me. Invulnerable. Implacable. I never thought about what everything had cost you. I never knew what you had lost. Before? You were Thorin, my King and Uncle, a great war hero who had kept our people from starving and given us the best life he could."

Thorin allowed his hair to spill over his face to hide the tears that were seeping between his fingers.

"Now I can see all the things you had to lose," Kíli said, and he sounded thoughtful and rather pensive. "All the things you had to give up. All the things you never even considered having for your own, because you had to be bigger than that. You had to be a King and a hero and a symbol for us all. You had to keep on giving us hope and leading us onwards, all alone. There was only you. Mahal wept, Thorin – I had no idea. You were but ninety-five when Thráin disappeared. That's, what, twelve years or so older than Fíli? And suddenly you were the King of a homeless and wandering people! My mother would have helped, but then Fee and I were born... and everyone else was dead. Just you, on your own. For a century."

Kíli huffed a little laugh, and leaned against his shoulder slightly. "I remember, when we were a little older, you had to stop being Uncle Thorin and start being Thorin instead. I was so hurt; oh, I was so angry! But Fíli told me to stop grumbling, and eventually I just accepted it. Now I know why you had to do it. You had to stop being only ours. You couldn't belong to us. You had to be _everyone's_.

"So when we formed the Company, you had to be everyone's, not just ours. When we confronted the Goblin King, you had to protect us all. When Azog had us cornered, you tried to buy everyone some time. When Thranduil had us captured, you stood between him and everyone else. In Laketown, you spoke out for everyone. You always placed yourself between your Dwarves and whatever it was we faced. And I never realised – I never _got_ why it seemed so effortless to just go along with it."

Thorin allowed his hands to drop into his lap, and stared at them for a long moment.

"So, you see, it isn't a great failing on your part," Kíli said earnestly, and he leaned his scruffy chin on top of Thorin's shoulder, patting his back clumsily. "You had to belong to all of Durin's Folk from the day Thráin went missing. Why should you expect to belong to one person alone? Why would you expect to have someone of your very own?"

"You all knew?" Thorin said again, and Kíli made an irritated sound.

"Trust you to ignore everything I just said! I'm sure I'll never sound so wise ever again. I wish Balin could have heard it."

"Kíli," Thorin tried to keep the growl from his voice. Kíli dug his pointed chin into his shoulder.

"All right, keep your scowl on." Kíli tipped his head until the side rested against Thorin's, and he picked up Thorin's hand and began to study it absently. Thorin allowed him to, distantly watching his hand get prodded and poked at as though it didn't even belong to him. "We guessed. After the Carrock you just seemed... more open. I couldn't believe it, and everyone else seemed just as confused. You've never really opened up to anyone before; I mean, even _Dwalin_ thinks you're a bit closed-off. But there you were, actually seeking Bilbo out. You asked him about himself. You _told_ him things about _yourself_! You wanted his advice – you _,_ wanting someone's advice! You even smiled at him! The pair of you fought like a cat and a rat at times, but it never mattered, not really. You always drifted back together."

Kíli paused, and then he fitted his palm against Thorin's, comparing their sizes. Kíli's was far, far smaller – and would never grow any larger. Then he said slowly, "For the first time since Fee and I were small, you didn't belong to everyone equally. You were giving one person more of you than anyone I've ever seen."

"Kíli," Thorin said, and folded his fingers over Kíli's with a shuddering sigh. "What you are saying... I. I never gave it much thought. I loved you, I always have. I tried to do right by you, nidoyel. But. I had to do my duty by my people. I _had_ to. I had to give them back their pride and their home. It is – was - my only purpose. Now I find that there could have been more than duty for me... and it is too late." He set his jaw and gazed down at their clasped hands, and his heart finally stopped clattering and juddering only to sink deep into his belly like a stone. "It is hopelessly late."

"No, see, that's where I think you're wrong," Kíli said, and nudged him. "You're dead, right?"

Thorin glowered at him.

Kíli grinned. "Bilbo's still out there, still alive, and we can look after him. It's not likely that much is going to happen to him in the Shire, but you never know, do you? So. We take care of him until it's his turn to pass through the mists."

"Bilbo is a Hobbit," Thorin reminded Kíli. "He cannot come to the Halls of Mahal."

"Right. Bilbo _is_ a Hobbit. Bilbo has fifty or so years to go. That's _nothing_ to a Dwarf, but," said Kíli, and he smiled innocently, "how annoying do you think I can be in that time?"

Thorin stared at him. "You... you _cannot..."_

"Well, if you can shout at our Maker, surely I can make a nuisance of myself?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._
> 
>  
> 
> Birashagimi – I'm sorry (literally, "I regret")  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight
> 
> Ivy Bush - a pub on Bywater Road in the Westfarthing of the Shire. Hamfast "Gaffer" Gamgee is _extremely_ fond of their beer.
> 
> Blacklock - one of the Seven Clans of the Dwarves, with dark complexions, black hair and brown eyes. The Seven Clans consist of the Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, Ironfists, Firebeards, Stonefoots, Broadbeams, and Longbeards. The Line of Durin are the ruling family of the Longbeards.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Thank you for your kudos and your lovely reviews! I get a little leap in my chestal region every time I read one :D You guys are The Best. *hugs*_


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hover your cursor over the text for Khuzdul or Sindarin translation!**

* * *

"Dwarves of Erebor!"

Dís stood at the gates of Ered Luin, her eyes flashing and her hair streaming behind her in the cool spring breezes. The last caravan to Erebor watched her attentively, their faces bright and eager.

"We are going home!" she cried in her ringing voice of diamond and mithril, and a mighty cheer rose up from every throat. Turning, Dís began to walk away from the worked-out mines and the crumbling halls of Belegost that had sheltered them in their poverty, and raised her face to the East. She did not look back. Wagons rumbled along in her wake as she began to march.

"Now there's a proper Dwarrowdam," breathed Frís. "Oh, my brave daughter." Thráin took her hand, and with wet eyes together they watched their last surviving child lead their people away from their reduced and pitiful lives towards the rising sun, and Erebor.

Thorin looked back over the great train of Dwarves, carts, ponies, goats and even a flock of sheep that stretched out behind his sister. Old Dwarves walked doggedly beside wagons that were pulled by oxen and draft-ponies, their gnarled old hands wrapped around axes that had not seen use in decades. Families crowded in amongst their furniture on top of the wagon beds, and the older children eyed the guards and warriors that flanked the caravan with inquisitive and awed expressions.

"Keep up, keep up!" Glóin bellowed to a heavy cart that was dawdling. The foothills of the Blue Mountains slowly slipped behind them, and before them rose the little rolling hills of Emyn Uial and beyond that lay the great sheltered valley of the Shire. "Got a long way to go as yet, my lads!"

The Dwarves began to sing as they marched, and soon Thorin was humming along:

_And her beard was as soft as the downy wing_  
_Of the birds that fly home at the call of spring,_  
_O! Why did I leave her, why did I roam?_  
_For now and forever I'll be marching home!_

[[The Dwarves' Walking Song, performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66841607709/first-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this-is-from)]

"I've not heard that one before," Gimli remarked, trudging alongside his father.

"T'is an old traveller's song, son," Glóin said, and as he had every time since returning to his family, his face creased with bemused pride.

His reunion with Mizim, Gimrís and Gimli upon his arrival at Ered Luin had been nothing short of spectacular. Glóin had wrapped himself around his wife and held onto her tightly, burying his face in her pale hair. She put her hands either side of his head and drew it back, tracing the old scar over his brow with her thumb before kissing him deeply and gently. "Hello, you old bear," she said softly, her hands slipping into his mane of wild red hair. "You're late."

"Jewel," he said, and his eyes misted over. "More lovely than ever you are, Mizim, crown of my life, light of my heart."

[ ](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/60900842758/in-determamfidds-sansukh-bomfris-daughter-of)

  


_Mizim, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/60900842758/in-determamfidds-sansukh-bomfris-daughter-of)_

"Don't think you can sweet-talk me into forgiving you, now," she scolded him, before kissing him again. His hard, craggy face softened as she rested her head against his chest for a moment. He took her hands and kissed them one after the other before turning to his children – and his mouth slowly formed the shape of an 'O'.

Thorin privately thought his expression was hilarious. Frerin, of course, didn't keep such things private. His brother keeled over backwards, laughing his head off.

Glóin's amazement was justified. Nearly three years wrought quite a change in a growing Dwarf, after all. Gimrís now appeared more queenly than ever, all gold and topaz, the fiery sun to her mother's pale moon. And Gimli was no longer a lad. He was a strong and sturdy young khudz, his arms thick with muscle and his beard lengthening rapidly. Glóin had gawked for a moment longer before Gimrís was hurling herself at her 'adad and Gimli was doing likewise, and Glóin was buried beneath the bodies of two mostly-grown Dwarves and groaning.

"Oof! You are too heavy for me now, off with you!" he wheezed, and Thorin chuckled at the sight of the bristly and imposing old warrior spluttering and choking for breath. When he was pulled to his feet once more and had regained some dignity, he took a delighted, reverent breath and touched the faces of his children with his great thick hands. "Now, look at these two giants!" he said softly. "Who is this brawny young warrior with the mighty beard? Who is this stout and strapping beauty with the hands of a craftswoman? Where are the wee badgers I left behind three years ago?"

"We missed you," blurted Gimrís.

"Missed you so much," echoed Gimli, and Glóin tugged them close and held them tightly.

"Inùdoy, nathith," he said against their hair, his eyes squeezing shut. "Gimli my son, Gimrís my daughter. I missed you so, my treasures."

Mizim bit down on her lip and wrapped her arms around them all. "Don't you be going off on any more fool Quests," she said in a low voice, and Glóin only tightened his embrace.

Bombur's reunion with his family had been far _louder_. Alrís didn't even have a chance to greet her husband before a veritable horde of Dwarflings swarmed Bombur and Bofur, shouting at the top of their lungs. Bombur's children buried themselves against his warm and hefty body, snuggling close, investigated his walking staff with curious and grubby fingers, pulled at 'Uncle Bofur's' hat and begged for a song and a sweet and a story. Bombur tried to kiss and tickle all of them at once, his seldom-heard booming laugh ringing out over the din. The oldest of the tribe patiently pulled the smaller ones away, and finally Alrís was able to give her husband a smacking kiss and show him the new baby, now two years old – a boy she had named Albur. He was a chubby, chuckling little thing with brown hair and eyes that danced like sunlight on water. Bombur gave the little one a whiskery buss on the top of the head, and then wrapped one arm around Alrís again and pulled her against him for another ringing kiss.

"Hello, love," he said, and rubbed his face against hers. "I missed you, my dumpling."

"What have you done to your leg?" she said breathlessly.

He shrugged. "Got poisoned. Don't recommend it."

"Poisoned, Daddy?" gasped one of his middle children, his eyes wide as saucers.

"Don't get too close to orcs," Bofur said succinctly, and a chorus of 'ooooh's rose from the crowd of children.

"Hospital food," Bombur said in disgust, and Alrís threw her head back and laughed and laughed.

It was because of his leg that Bombur had relinquished his pony and chosen to drive a wagon. Children festooned him, and he could be heard telling them recipes and stories as he guided the shaggy, sure-footed draft-ponies. His reviews of Elvish cookery were particularly colourful.

At night, Dís would walk amongst the wagons and carts and check the perimeter and the watches herself. The many campfires made the valley of the Lhûn appear like a bowl full of golden embers. Then she would return to her place at the head of the train and take her rest. Now and then Gimli or Gimrís would join her, sometimes Mizim, but most often she was solitary, a tall, straight sentinel watching over the scurrying of the Dwarves below. With her hand on the pommel of her sword she stood guard over them, her eyes sad and fond and determined.

Thorin stood at her shoulder and looked over their people, returning to their home at long last. "Thank you, sister," he murmured. "I love you, nadadith. Look after them for me, would you?"

She tucked a braid behind her ear and sighed.

Thorin took to watching the journey with religious dedication. He still had to make his amends, after all, and although he had made a start he was still not convinced that he had done enough. His family joined him on occasion, but like Dís he was very often alone. His time became structured and orderly: his meals, his forge, his family and the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

It was slow going. Travelling with so many wagons and children meant that the caravan moved at a far more leisurely pace than Thorin's Company had set. Bofur especially seemed to chafe at the 'dawdling', as he called it, and often ranged ahead with his mattock on his shoulder. Occasionally he brought along one of Bombur's elder children, and once or twice he brought Gimli (to that lad's great excitement). Nothing happened, although they did spy a party of Elves making their way to Mithlond, the Grey Havens, where they would depart Middle-Earth forevermore.

" _That's_ an Elf?" Gimli said, wrinkling his nose. "And here I thought they were supposed to be fair and glorious! Hmmph. They're all stretched and faded."

Bofur chuckled. "Don't be fooled. They might look like skinny, insipid twigs, but they're stronger than they appear and their eyesight is much better than ours in daylight. An Elf will put an arrow through your eye as soon as look at you."

"No beards at _all_ ," Gimli muttered under his breath, and shuddered.

The caravans forded the River Lune with great care and began to follow the Old North Road, built in the ancient days of the Kings of Men, passing south of the Emyn Uial. Eventually the grey and rocky lands gave way to little green rolling hills, grassy sheltered valleys and carefully tended farms. Even further to the south, smoke rose from little chimneys. Thorin glanced around at the peaceful, plentiful land and felt something clench somewhere in his stomach.

As dusk drew near, Dís signalled for them to make camp on a hill covered in nodding dandelions and clover. Bees hummed merrily from their nest in a lone apple tree covered in blossom, and birds piped in the distance from a nearby wood. Bombur shared a pointed look with Glóin.

Glóin shrugged. "He'll be here. He promised."

"Which way is Hobbiton from here?" Bofur shaded his eyes with his hand. Bombur's eldest was wearing his hat. She was a jolly Dwarrowdam of sixty called Barís, with dimpled cheeks and a sunny smile, and she marched along behind her uncle with one of her siblings on her shoulders.

"South-east," said Glóin after a moment. "And there! Look!"

A little figure was making its way along the winding paths between the little hills, running as fast as its large woolly feet could carry it. A pack full to bursting bounced on its back, and his hands were waving excitedly.

"Ho, Bilbo!" Glóin shouted, waving back.

"Is that a Hobbit?" whispered Gimrís to her brother.

" _Again_ , no beard!" Gimli said, and shook his head in sympathy.

Bilbo came to the head of the caravan, puffing and holding one hand to the side of his chest. "Oh, it's been a little while since I ran quite that hard, and carrying so much too!" he said ruefully. "Hello again! My goodness, I see what old Odo Bolger was so excited about. There are an awful lot of you, aren't there?"

With that the Hobbit was engulfed in a hug, and there was much back-patting and smiles all round. Bombur tapped his forehead to Bilbo's, and Bofur tousled the curly hair as Glóin beamed at him.

Thorin felt his father come to stand beside him. "So that was him?"

Thorin nodded silently.

Thráin regarded the Hobbit for a moment, and then he grunted and put a heavy hand on Thorin's shoulder. "I'm sorry, my son."

Thorin just kept gazing at the brave little soul that could have - should have - been his. Thráin's powerful fingers tightened on Thorin's shoulder.

"I'll leave you be," he said kindly. "We're here if you need us, Thorin. Remember that."

Thorin nodded again, and swallowed around his dry throat. Thráin's fingers squeezed once more, and then he was gone.

"You should hear the ruckus down at the Green Dragon," Bilbo was saying. "Poor old Odo is convinced it's an invasion and has the whole pub in an uproar. Half of Brandy Hall – that's the Brandybucks, by the way – want to come out and see for themselves. The other half want to sound the Horn-call of Buckland. The Bracegirdles are wringing their hands and fainting, the Grubbs are calling it none of our business, the Boffins are trying to organise a welcoming party, and the Tooks are giggling up their sleeves and egging everyone on indiscriminately."

"And the Bagginses?" said Bombur, smiling.

Bilbo laughed gaily. "Are pretending they've never even _heard_ of Dwarves, or dragons, or adventures, or rich mad cousins. Whenever someone brings it up they begin talking loudly about the weather or about pie-eating contests or Farmer Maggott's dogs or some such. It's terrifically funny."

"We don't normally pass so close to the Shire," said Bofur, "but seein' as it's the last load, so to speak, we thought we'd suggest a detour."

"So all of the Blue Mountains are emptied?" Bilbo looked downcast. "Oh. I hoped you'd be coming back and forth for some time."

"Well, we've got our home back now, haven't we?" said Glóin, and patted the little fellow on the back. Thorin wanted to chop his hand off.

"I suppose," Bilbo said, and his shoulders slumped.

"Here, Bilbo," Bombur said into the ensuing silence. "You should meet my family! That's Barís, my eldest, and over there's Bomfur, Bolrur, and Bofrur, my terrible little trio of redheads, and the two big dark-haired lads there are Barum and Barur; then there's Alfur and Alrur and Alfrís and Bomfrís tormenting that poor pony. Barum, stop that lot, would you, before the pony dies of nerves? And over there is my lovely wife Alrís, and our two littlest ones, Bibur and Albur."

Alrís sketched a bow, her arms filled with squirming child. "At your service," she called cheerfully.

Thorin was a little dizzy after all those names.

Bilbo seemed to have no trouble with such a crowd, and bowed to Alrís, smiling. "At yours and your family's – although I may be a little pressed to accommodate so many. Good gracious me, Bombur! I'd think you were part-Hobbit!"

"I like your feet," announced one of the horde of red-headed Dwarflings.

"Why, thank you," Bilbo chuckled. "They are indeed very respectable feet, even if the rest of me isn't. How long do you plan to stay camped here in the North-Farthing?"

"We'll be on the move almost immediately," said Glóin apologetically. "Tomorrow morning, most likely. You know how it goes."

"My word yes," Bilbo said, and then sighed in disappointment.

"Well, let's make the most of tonight then, shall we?" said Bofur.

Bilbo perked up. "Yes, yes, quite right! I brought a few little things for us to share, though now I hope they'll stretch far enough..."

"We've seen how Hobbits eat," said Glóin dryly. "I'm fairly sure we'll do fine, laddie."

"And just think, Bilbo! No washing up!" Bofur nudged him. Thorin wished everyone would stop touching the Hobbit.

Bilbo rolled his eyes theatrically. "Thank heavens!"

"What did you bring?" Bombur asked, rubbing his hands eagerly. "Cheesecake?"

"Here now! First you have to meet my set," said Glóin. "This is my lad Gimli, and my lass Gimrís. Over there tying down the cart is my darlin' Mizim. Mizim, come here! Come meet our Burglar!"

"I'm a little busy, you daft old bugger," she snapped, "in case you haven't noticed!"

Glóin gave them a sheepish grin. "She's the jewel o' my life, she is."

  
  
Mizim, by [gremlinloquacious](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/72247359436/mizim-wife-of-gloin-also-entitled-when-i-get)  


"I'll go and help her," said Gimrís, touching her father's arm. Glóin nodded and patted her hand, and she went to help her mother secure the oilcloth and the ponies.

Gimli and Bilbo regarded each other curiously. "Hello there – Gimli, was it?" Bilbo said. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

"Gimli son of Glóin at yours," Gimli said automatically, and then tipped his head, studying the Hobbit with an expression of slightly-disturbed fascination. "Doesn't your face get cold?"

Bilbo burst into giggles.

Glóin tugged at his own beard to hide a smile. "Ah, Gimli m'boy, Hobbits don't grow beards."

"Oh, some do, but only those of Stoor families," Bilbo said, still giggling. "Even then, it's nothing for a Dwarf to boast of. I remember catching you all staring at me for the first couple of weeks when you thought I wasn't watching. And for the record, not one of you is any good at being sneaky – well, except Nori, but the rest of you were not exactly subtle about it. Was it my poor naked chin, then?"

"That and your riding, laddie," Glóin said, and then snorted at the Hobbit's expression of half-amusement, half-exasperation.

"Were we that rude?" said Bofur, grinning.

"You barged into my house, pillaged my pantry, drafted me into an adventure and sang an _extremely_ insulting song," Bilbo said, poking Bofur in the side. "Staring was the politest thing any of you did!"

"Ah, my apologies?" mumbled Gimli, scratching at his head.

"No harm done," Bilbo reassured him. "And to answer your question: Yes, my face gets quite cold indeed, which is extremely inconvenient - but it dries wonderfully quick compared to yours!"

Bombur clambered down from his wagon with slow and careful movements. Gimli and Bofur came to help him, and he eased his weight onto his leg before grabbing his walking staff and limping forward. "So what did you bring us then, Mister Baggins?"

Bilbo's eyes lit up, and he dragged his bulging pack from his back. "I've got cheese, apples, bread, beer, three pies, a leg of lamb cooked in the Long Cleeve style, a cured ham, a great plum duff, and a whole brace of presents in here for you to take to the others. I'm afraid it's rather a lot to carry."

Bofur and Glóin shrugged, and Thorin tried not to smile, he really did – but what Bilbo considered a lot to carry was barely noticeable to Dwarrows. He'd never really understood how hardy and strong a Dwarf could be, even after so much evidence. The Hobbit dug through his overstuffed pack, and made a soft 'aha!' sound.

"Here." He pushed a bundle of papers into Bombur's hands. "All my mother's recipes. She was a Took, you know, and collected recipes from all over the Shire, all the way as far east as Midgewater."

Bombur looked down with wide eyes at the crushed bundle and then pressed it protectively against his chest. "Bilbo!" he said, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Oh, hush, it's the very least I could do," Bilbo said, ducking his flushed face. "Now, I have... here!"

He handed Bofur a strange configuration of sheepskin and dyed leather, with neat little stitches in the Shire-fashion around the edges. "It's your hat, do you see," Bilbo said, anxiously wringing his hands. "I bought the skins from the Proudfeet, and I had it copied by Bell Gamgee. Yours was such a wreck, after all, and I thought you might like to have a new one. I do hope I haven't upset you?"

Bofur slowly opened up the folded brim of the new hat, dyed a handsome red-brown, and suddenly smiled. He pulled it onto his head, lifting his chin and tugging at the flaps. "What do you think, lads?"

"Oh, thank Mahal, I was going to burn the old one in his sleep," said Bombur with relief.

"Aye, very proper!" Glóin said and nudged Bilbo. Thorin growled under his breath. Would nobody stop touching the Hobbit? "Looks like a mine full o' diamonds, don't he?"

"All right, don't lay it on too thick," said Bofur agreeably. "Thank you kindly, Bilbo. It's a right fine hat. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if a hat made by a Hobbit turns out to be lucky!"

"Glóin, this is for you." Bilbo handed him a polished wooden box, its lid and sides carved with leaves and grapes. Glóin admired the carving for a moment, and Bilbo huffed. "Well, woodworking is probably the only Hobbit craft that you fellows might appreciate. Still, it's not empty. Open it."

Glóin cracked it open, and Gimli peered over his father's shoulder to look inside. "Pipe-weed?"

"Not just any pipe-weed, my dear Dwarf. _That_ is Longbottom Leaf. It's the year of '32 – a very good year indeed!"

"My dear Hobbit!" Glóin said, and eyed the box with new appreciation. "I am deeply in your debt!"

"Oh, think nothing of it!" Bilbo said, beaming. "Now, if you wouldn't mind... here, Gimli, would you give me a hand?"

Out of Bilbo's pack came the wrapped ham and lamb, the pies, the pudding and the cheeses, apples and a tightly-stoppered jug. "Now," Bilbo said, straightening his coat, "the inks are for Ori, and the bottles are delicate, so be careful! These herbs are for Óin. So are these notes. I translated a couple of healing texts from the Elvish - and it was a lot of work, so don't you dare throw them away! Ah, this is for Dori. It's an embroidery pattern-book from my Aunt Hildigard, and some of those patterns are old enough to impress even Dori, I dare say. I hope he can get some use out of it."

Bofur opened the little book and smiled down at the curling designs with their friendly motifs of flowers, leaves and vegetables. "Who knows? Perhaps Hobbit stitching will become the new exotic fashion. You could start a trend!"

"I fervently hope my trend-setting days are done, thank you very much," said Bilbo dryly. "Now, this is for Nori, from one Burglar to another."

Bombur's forehead creased as he took in the candlesticks, the cheese-knife and the little silver gravy-boat. "What's this?"

Bilbo rubbed a hand through his hair and smiled a trifle wickedly. "I discovered after I got back that it wasn't only my frightful relatives who were a little too free with my belongings. A certain light-fingered chap had made off with a few small things on the night of the party. I thought he might like the rest of the set, with my compliments."

Glóin burst out into roars of laughter, and even Gimli snickered. Bofur clapped a hand over his eyes and wasn't able to speak for a moment as his face began to turn red. "Oh, he'll hate that!" Bombur gasped. "He's been found out, and he didn't even manage to pinch the lot! Oh, he'll be prickly for a month!"

Bilbo looked smug. "That was rather the idea."

Bofur pulled his new hat down over his eyes and waved frantically at them to go on as he panted, trying to get his laughter under control.

"I had this made for Balin," Bilbo said, bringing out a curious little pot. "Look at the sides!"

Glóin, Bombur, Gimli and Thorin (Bofur was still trying vainly to stop laughing) peered closer to the little thing, and then Glóin exclaimed, "why, that's the contract!"

"Certainly!" Bilbo said, turning the thing so they could see it. "Derimac Brandybuck is quite a clever potter, don't you think? I wrote out what I could remember of my contract and told him to paint it on the sides. Poor Derrin, his usual work is flowers and ducks and the occasional pumpkin vine; I don't think he was expecting all that about laceration, evisceration or incineration any more than I had."

"Did he faint?" asked Bombur, leaning forward eagerly.

A wheezing little sound of glee came from under Bofur's hat.

Bilbo paused, and then he sighed. "Yes."

Thorin choked on his own laughter as the members of his Company erupted once more. Glóin and Gimli ended up with their arms slung around each other's necks, while Bofur collapsed to the ground with his heels swinging into the air. Bombur wiped his eyes while Bilbo clutched at his sides and gasped.

As their laughter began to subside, Bilbo choked out, "Nope!" and that set them all off again. Bombur began to lean heavily on his staff, and Bofur pounded at the ground once or twice with a fist. Glóin was making tea-kettle noises and Gimli had to take on more of his father's weight. The poor lad was beginning to look rather red in the face.

"All right, all right!" Bilbo managed to say between his chuckles, "Well, on with it! I wasn't sure what to get Bifur, until I remembered that he was a toymaker before he was a miner. And so," He brought out a curious little thing with cogs and wheels. The assembled Dwarves peered close with exclamations of interest. "Yes, isn't it clever? It's a model of the Old Mill down at Hobbiton, you know. You can pour water in here, and the wheel turns and it grinds away."

"Well now," Bombur said as he gently took the model in his thick-fingered hands. Bofur peeked out from under his hat. His face was bright red. "Bofur, look. Isn't tha' a dear little thing? My little lads would like that, they would."

"An' being Hobbit and all, it'd seem pretty special and out of the ordinary," Bofur said, smoothing down his ruffled moustache. "Wonder if we could make a model Bag End?"

"Oh no. Oh, no, no, no, no, _no_! If I have an _entire generation_ of Dwarves trooping through my house, I will hunt you down and sting the pair of you!" Bilbo said sternly.

Bombur closed his mouth with a snap, but Bofur looked entirely too innocent to be believed.

"Last one," Bilbo said, tutting and turning back to his nearly-empty pack.

"Dwalin," murmured Thorin.

"Dwalin," said Bombur in the exact same tone, nodding.

"Glad to see _one_ of you pays attention," Bilbo sniffed. "Ah, here we are!"

"What on earth, laddie?" Glóin squinted at the myriad of brightly painted horse-chestnuts, string threaded through their middles.

"Traditional Hobbit weaponry," Bilbo said, a gleam in his eye. "I in particular have some skill at it. If you must know."

"No," said Bofur in disbelief.

"Not...?" said Glóin.

"Conkers?" Thorin said, utterly incredulous.

"Conkers?" Gimli echoed, and then he blinked in confusion.

Thorin cursed his lapse of attention.

"What? Has one of you been telling tales?" Bilbo put his hands on his hips and grinned at them. "I'd challenge you to a game, but it's really not a fair fight."

"Oh really?" Glóin said, his chest puffing out. "Mighty sure of yourself there, Mister Baggins. Well, we'll soon see about that!"

Before long, Bilbo had all four, plus Gimrís, Barís and Mizim, squabbling over a game of conkers. The jug was opened to reveal a strong spirit that was met with general approval ("perhaps not for the young ones; that's Gaffer Gamgee's home-distilled apricot brandy, you know!") and the cheese and ham were quickly unwrapped and passed around. The Dwarrows threw themselves into the game with their usual healthy competitiveness, but Bilbo hadn't exaggerated his skill. He was winning easily, and grinned triumphantly every time his horse-chestnut knocked another out of the game.

Thorin watched with a certain sense of bemusement. "And they do this for sport?" he muttered to himself. "Peculiar folk."

"Here now, that's mine! You cheated!"

"No, I'm the green one – you're the blue one!"

"Any idiot can see that this one is _teal._ Honestly, call yourself my brother?"

"Gimrís, lay off! Hah, that's three to me!"

"Too bad, I'm on seven."

"Glóin, can't you...?"

"Best not to get involved, laddie."

Bilbo leaned back, sighing with satisfaction and slapping his knees. "And that's the game to me!"

"Are all Hobbits so good at throwing and aiming at things?" Bofur said, staring dismally at his halved horse-chestnut. He hadn't won a single round.

Bilbo shrugged. "Bit of a hobby, really."

The commotion had brought some attention to the group. Many of the other Dwarves sent curious glances over to the Hobbit and his odd little game, his bare face and furry feet. Thorin bristled at their interest and barely restrained himself from barking at them to show their Burglar the proper respect.

The gawking stopped abruptly when a tall Dwarrowdam in a fur-lined hood came through the crowd to check on all the fuss. Dwarves and Hobbit all fell silent, and Dís raised a dark eyebrow at the game on the ground.

"Gimli?" she said, turning to him.

"Ah, hello Aunt Dís," he said, scrambling to his feet and brushing off his trousers. "Just passing the time."

The corner of her mouth twitched, and she turned to where Bilbo sat on the grass, fidgeting with a chestnut. "Will you not introduce me?"

"Ah, aye, of course," Gimli said, and cleared his throat. "Dís, daughter of Frís, I make known to you Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He's a Hobbit," he added unnecessarily.

"I can see that, akhûnîth," she said, her mithril-pure voice lilting with amusement, though her face barely moved. "Dís. At your service."

Bilbo pulled himself upright and tried to look as dignified as a Hobbit can whilst holding a horse-chestnut painted bright yellow. "At yours and your family's."

Dís smiled at that, rather sadly. "You already have been."

There was an awful silence, and then Bilbo burst out, "You look so much like him."

She froze, and then she dropped her eyes.

Bilbo's mouth worked soundlessly, and then he also looked down. "I'm sorry," he mumbled wretchedly. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm always sticking my foot in my great silly mouth."

Thorin couldn't stop himself from taking a short, sharp intake of breath, his hand reaching out to touch Bilbo's shoulder. His fingers passed through it, and he bit down hard on his lip until the sour taste of iron flooded his mouth.

Dís lifted her head again as she took a breath. "Yes, we were very alike," she said eventually. "Although my brother was taller, and he had our mother's eyes."

"Oh, of course... I..." Bilbo wrung his hands together. "I just..."

"Calm yourself, Master Hobbit," she said, and then she bowed to him with all the poise of her rank and all the dignity of a Queen. "Thank you for all you did for us. For them."

Bilbo sniffed loudly, and his face was screwed up against tears, his clever little hands balled at his sides. Thorin knelt before him and ghosted his hand over the back of Bilbo's arm. "Thank you, Bilbo," he echoed.

"I didn't..." Bilbo managed, and then he buried his face in his palms. "Oh dear," he quavered. "Oh dear, oh dear..."

"Gimli," Thorin said desperately, "help him."

The young Dwarf shifted his weight between his feet for a moment, looking uncertain. Then he said, "Mister Baggins was showing us a Hobbit game, Aunt Dís."

All heads turned to him, and he flushed as red as his hair, before ploughing on bravely. "It's a mite tricky to get the hang of it, but I was starting to see how it was done. D'you want to try it?"

Bilbo blinked, and Dís looked rather perplexed. "If Mister Baggins is amenable?" she said, turning back to the bemused Hobbit.

"Certainly," he said, giving Gimli a long bewildered stare. "It's called conkers."

"Aye, it's dreadfully fiddly," said Bofur, finally finding his voice.

"I'm the best at it," said Gimrís proudly.

"Except for Bilbo here!" Gimli said immediately, and he crossed his arms over his broad chest, scowling. "And you gloat."

"Gloating's all part of the fun," Gimrís said with a toss of her bright head. "Not my fault you couldn't win a game against a dead orc."

"Gimrís!" Mizim snapped.

"Here," said Glóin and handed Dís the red horse-chestnut, his hands gentle as he gave up his place. "Sit down, cousin. I'm going to see if I can find Bombur a chair."

"Oh, don't bother on my account!" Bombur protested, but tucked by his side, young Barís nodded vigorously. Bombur grunted and poked his daughter in the shoulder, and she wrinkled her nose.

"Your leg's going to get all cramped sitting like that, Dad. Best to stretch it out."

"Aunt Dís?" Gimli said softly, and she hesitated for a moment before sitting down beside her young cousin and patting his knee.

"Don't fret about me, young one," she said. "Time for your sister to watch her back."

"All right then, if that's everyone?" Bilbo said, and picked up his yellow horse-chestnut.

Much, much later, the rumblings of hundreds of sleeping Dwarves drifted through the pleasant Shire air towards the star-studded night. Bilbo was rolled snugly into a blanket and curled up between Bofur and Bombur's bedrolls for old times' sake. Thorin sat opposite them as Bombur's snores shook the ground, and felt something in him begin to uncurl and loosen.

He leaned back and looked up at the sickle moon, and almost – almost – felt alive. It could have been any night of the Quest, really. It could have been just another night on the road, guarding over his rumbling, sleeping Company. Just himself, and the snores of his people, and the calls of night birds under the watchful night sky.

"Just like old times," Bilbo said with a yawn. "My word, those stars are bright. Oh, I have missed all this!"

Bofur rolled over and poked his head out from under his blanket. "Well," he said slowly.

"Hmm?" Bilbo sounded half-asleep already.

"You could come with us."

Thorin's head whipped back to them faster than an Elven arrow.

Bilbo seemed equally shocked. "What?"

"Come with us? I know the others'd be thrilled to have you back, and I know you miss us."

Bilbo blinked, and then he let out a sigh full of melancholy. "I can't," he said, and there was true regret in his voice. "Bofur, I'd love to stay with all of you, but I just _can't_. Erebor, it... it's too big. It's too empty for me."

"Fillin' up pretty fast from all accounts, I hear," Bofur said.

Bilbo's smile was anything but happy. He swallowed hard and said, bravely if hoarsely, "It's not that sort of empty."

"We could even make you a little room an' cram it full of doilies..."

"It's empty because he's not in it," Bilbo interrupted shortly, and then he rolled over and tucked himself deep inside his blanket.

The anger rushed back in a flood. The illusion of watching over his Company on their Quest was just that – a lie, a figment of his delusional mind. Thorin was _dead_ , not alive. Thorin had been dead for three years, and still his guilt and grief and rage tore at him. He stared uselessly at the patchwork of Bilbo's blanket, and the familiar twisting sensation knotted in his belly. "I _will_ look after you," he said. "I _will_ make my amends."

Bofur was still, and then he patted Bilbo's back. "I'm so sorry," he said softly.

"Yes, well," Bilbo sighed, straightening slightly and resting his head against his hand. "I should really trade in that 'lucky number' title of mine, shouldn't I? I had all the luck in the world, but it wasn't enough."

"Never is," Bofur said in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

"You won't need luck, I swear it," Thorin vowed fiercely. "Mahal be my witness! You won't need luck. You've got _me."_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Khudz - Dwarf  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad - mother  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Nathith - daughter  
> Mizim - jewel  
> Akhûnîth – young man
> 
> Emyn Uial - The Hills of Evendium, north-west of the Shire.  
> Lhûn - The River Lune  
> Mithlond - the Grey Havens, an Elvish port on the Gulf of Lune, ruled by Círdan the Shipwright. Here the ships departed Middle-Earth for Valinor.  
> Belegost (Khuzdul: Gabilgathol)– Kingdom of the Broadbeam Dwarves in the Blue Mountains (Ered Luin). The Kingdom was abandoned during the War of Wrath, when the mountains were broken apart and much of it fell into the sea. The Longbeard refugees of Erebor built their shelters in the ruins and reopened many of the old mines.  
> Hobbit whiskers - in ' _Concerning Hobbits',_ it is noted that one of the three varieties of Hobbit, the Stoors, grew whiskers upon their chins (the other two breeds were the Fallohides and the Harfoots, both beardless). The two great families of the Shire, the Brandybucks and the Tooks, were noted for their strong Fallohide strain.  
> Hildigard Took - Eldest daughter of Gerontius "The Old" Took, sister to Belladonna Baggins.
> 
> _Thanks so much you guys! It is wonderful to know you're enjoying this, and I am LOVING the chance to mutually flail about the Dear Professor's amazing world and these characters we all love. Your reviews and kudos make me **so happy** I just asdfjg;JGFLJG_


	6. Chapter Six

Thorin kept his word. He visited the Chamber every day. Bilbo kept on with his life, busily pottering around his little Hobbit-Hole and garden, blithely unconcerned with what his neighbours thought of him. He lent his mithril-shirt to a museum, although Hobbits called it a 'mathom-house'. From what Thorin could understand, a mathom was something that was meant to gather dust; interesting, but impractical. A mithril-shirt, impractical! He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it. Truly, Hobbits were preposterous little creatures!

Erebor underwent several ferocious winters. The restorations slowed to a halt as Dáin fed all their efforts into keeping the Mountain supplied and warm. Dori redirected his tireless Guild campaign into organising foraging and hunting schedules, and Bombur spent hour after hour in the marketplace, ladling out bowls of soup and thick hunks of bread to all and sundry. Óin, poor fellow, threw up his hands in disgust at the new onslaught of illnesses and threatened to retire. Nori's leg gave him a great deal of trouble in the biting cold, and he complained vociferously to any who would listen.

Gimli was immensely proud when his beard finally reached a respectable length. He kept it tied into two workmanlike braids, his thick moustache plaited into it. His hair he kept back in a queue at most times, preferring not to fuss with it, though on special occasions he brought out the golden barrel-clasps his grandfather had made.

Seven years after the final departure from Ered Luin, Bifur woke up in the Halls of Mahal.

Thorin waited outside the welcoming sepulchre, Fíli and Kíli by his side. The miner had been steadily declining ever since the Battle of Five Armies, and it was remarkable that he had lasted so long. A testament to Dwarven durability, Thorin supposed.

It had been hard to watch. Towards the end, Bifur had been barely present, drifting away to some distant place where no-one, not even his cousins, could reach him. His words had disappeared, as had his iglishmêk. He placidly followed where he was guided, and he had to be helped in everything; in dressing, in feeding, in washing.

Yes, it had been painful to watch.

His parents Kifur and Bomrís and his uncle Bomfur (the father to Bofur and Bombur) were greeting him, and Thorin wondered how that worked. Did Mahal let you know in some way? Or had they discovered it as Thorin had, peering through the waters of Gimlîn-zâram?

Eventually the door opened and Fíli looked up. "He's here!" he said, gripping onto Thorin's hand.

"Shhh!" Kíli said, and Thorin shot them both a look.

"Allow him some space," he said sternly. It had been ten years, but he still recalled how disoriented and overwhelmed he had been. "He has just met our Maker and his parents, and will be—"

"Zabadâl belkul!" cried a joyous voice, and Thorin was rudely interrupted by a heavy, entirely naked body slamming into him and bowling him over. "Zabadâl belkul, melhekhel!"

"Bifur!" Thorin managed, spitting out white-and-black streaked hair. "Bifur, calm down!"

"Zûr zu?" Bifur grabbed Thorin's shoulders and smashed their heads together. Thorin reeled, stars sparking before his eyes.

"Ach! Stop, wait-"

"Abbad, abbad, sakhab!" Bifur crowed, and then patted at Thorin's face. "Ah, melhekhel, Thorin-zabad. Sakhab at you, I never thought I'd see you again, and so unchanged. Why, you could skin me wi' that glare! Does a body good to see it."

Thorin stopped struggling and stared at him, dumbfounded. "Bifur... you're speaking Westron."

"Am I?" Bifur blinked, and then he smiled. There was a faint red scar where once there had been a huge stomach-churning dent in his skull, and he seemed far more lucid than Thorin could remember him ever being – if still rather odd. "Oh. So I am."

"And you're naked," Fíli added.

"On top of Thorin," Kíli sniggered.

Bifur beamed at them, pushing away from Thorin and exclaiming, "Lads! Fíli, Kíli, shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ, how wonderful it is to see you!"

"Good to see you too," Kíli told him, pulling him to his feet.

"Be even better if we hadn't seen so _much_ of you," Fíli mumbled. Bifur simply laughed and tugged the boys into a hug, throwing his arms around their necks and holding on tightly.

Thorin pushed himself up and rubbed his forehead. "Well, it seems you slip back into Khuzdul every now and then," he said to himself, before smiling at the faces of his nephews as they tried to extricate themselves from Bifur's ebullience. Raising his voice he said, "Perhaps we should find you some clothes..."

"No perhaps about it," Kíli wheezed.

Bifur jerked away suddenly to stare at his hands with a perplexed expression. His eyes were completely focused for the first time in ten years. "Oh, yes." Then he raised his eyebrows and looked down at himself with apparent surprise. "Aye, all right. Although I could get used to this, you know. Rather... freeing. You should try it."

"My eyes," moaned Fíli.

"My brain," whimpered Kíli.

Abruptly Bifur tensed, his head jerking up and his eyes widening. "Wait, 'ikhuzh! 'Amad, 'adad, uncle Bomfur... where are they?"

"Behind you, Bifur," said an amused voice. "The Maker recreated your birthmark, I see."

Bifur laughed and leapt for the three Dwarrows, and then he dragged them over to Fíli, Kíli and Thorin, naked as the day he was born. "Here now - Mum, Papa, Bomfur - this is my King. Thorin, this is..."

"I know them, Bifur," Thorin said, and gingerly patted the Dwarf on his bare shoulder. "I met them before you woke."

"And I hit His Majesty on the arm for taking my boy and my nephews on such a ridiculous quest in the first place," muttered Kifur.

"We should get you fed, my little magpie," said Bomrís in her soft, withdrawn voice, shaking her head as she smoothed her hands over Bifur's face and beard. She was a thin, quiet, black-haired Dwarrowdam with large dark eyes and work-roughened hands. She bore little resemblance to her younger brother Bomfur, with his creased and beaming smiles and his loud jolly laugh. "Hold still now, dearest."

  


_Bomfur, father of Bofur and Bombur, by[FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/67442968101/bomfur-determamfidds-oc-of-bombur-and-bofurs) (YorikoSakakibara)_

Kifur chuckled. "We need to put something on you before Mahal changes his mind."

"Food?" Bifur said quizzically as he allowed his father to pull the shirt over his wild hair. His mother brushed it away from his face gently, her fingers lingering over the little red line on his forehead. "We can eat here? Somehow I didn't really think _eating_ happened in the Halls of my Ancestors..."

"Aye, we eat," Thorin said, trying and failing to repress a smile. "There's food, and plenty of it."

"Oh." Bifur frowned for a moment, and then he brightened. "Are there flowers?"

  
  
  
Kifur, Bomris and little Bifur, by [chess-ka](http://chess-ka.tumblr.com/post/118635975961/for-determamfidd-because-the-discussion-on-her)  


* * *

"You _idiot!"_

Dáin groaned as he shut the door behind him, and threw the crown into the corner of the King's antechamber. Thorin stalked after him, incandescent with fury.

"You absolute _idiot!"_ he snarled again. "The gold is cursed, Dáin, you utter naive fool! And he gave it to that grasping, oily, despicable Man – what did you _think_ would happen?"

The door flew open, and Dwalin stormed in, followed by Óin. "You idiot!" he thundered.

"That's our King," Óin muttered.

"You idiot, _your Majesty,"_ snarled Dwalin, teeth snapping around the words.

"No, Óin," Dáin said wearily, "he's only saying what you're both thinking."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, for Mahal's sake, get your bloody trumpet," Dwalin hissed, before rounding on Dáin again. "What did you think you were doin'? That Man was touched with the Dragon-sickness, any fool could see it!"

"I was honouring our agreements," Dáin said with a sigh, rubbing at his forehead. "I gave it to Bard in good faith."

"And he gave it to the Master o' Laketown in good faith, who ran off with it in _bad faith!"_ Dwalin folded his arms over his chest and glared at Dáin.

" _Thank_ you!" Thorin said, throwing up his hands in disgust, and then he turned to glare at Dáin as well.

"What would you have done, eh?" Dáin said through gritted teeth. "We needed that good will. Not up to us what Bard does with his possessions!"

"Those were the valued and cherished works of our ancestors," Óin said stiffly. "My great-grandfather Borin made that helm. Now it's lost out in the Wastes somewhere, an' we'll not ever be seein' it again."

Once again Thorin felt the yawning pit of guilt open up in his belly. "Always, it comes down to gold," he said bitterly.

"Always about the gold," echoed Dwalin, his brows knitting and his face like a thundercloud. "Our heritage is the gold, and the gold is our heritage, and we cannot separate the two."

"He wore it when the Dwarves of the Grey Mountains faced the Cold-Drake. We cannot make its like anymore. We've lost the skill," mourned Óin.

"Well, it's gone," Dáin said brusquely. "And we'd best get used to the idea. It was gone when we gave it up to Bard."

"We shouldnae have given up Borin's helm," muttered Óin, lifting his chin.

"Aye," Dwalin rumbled. "That was no mere pile o' trinkets."

"I was forced to give up the armour forged by my own great-grandfather, Dáin the first of that name, killed by that self-same Cold-drake," said Dáin steadily. "It is all we have left of a great king and a bygone era, but I relinquished it. You are not alone in this. I hear and understand you. I _know_ it isn't just a pile o' trinkets. I _know_ it isn't greed or the gold-sickness that's makin' you come in here and shout at me. I had Glóin and Balin roaring at each other for weeks over this. One fourteenth share, cousin – it is a vast amount. No matter how we tried to carve it, we could not avoid parting with some of our more precious artefacts."

"Do they demand more?" asked Dwalin, his glare intensifying.

"Nay, barufûn. There's enough of us now to withstand even two armies," Dáin said with a wry glance up at him. "There'll be no sieges at the Mountain in these watchful days."

Dwalin grunted and then he sat down heavily. "Men!" he sneered. "Never understood 'em, never will."

Óin's face was fixed and craggy, and his eyes were bright with outrage. "That gold is our inheritance and identity and culture and history, given shape an' form," he said fiercely, shaking a fist towards the south. "Elves and Men may covet it – but they cannot understand what it is to see your people's work, the craft of their hands... the breastplates of great kings or the diadem of a little princess, the things your father's father's father made and touched and wore... and to simply _coerce_ them from us under the threat of starvation and war!"

Thorin let out a long, slow breath. "No," he said in barely a whisper, "under the threat of withholding that thrice-cursed stone."

Dáin held up his hand and waited patiently. "Calm yourselves, cousins. This is not the fall of the dragon. They are not homeless, and nor are we. We do not live in fear of each other, and the trust between our peoples grows – slowly, to be sure, but it grows. We prosper. They would be fools to jeopardise our alliance with more demands."

"Aye, they can't demand our treasures from us now that we number more than thirteen and a Hobbit," spat Dwalin.

Dáin quirked an eyebrow. "I think Bard is beginning to understand us a little better, you know. He wouldn't go a-demanding these days."

"Aye, he got what he wanted the first time 'round!" said Óin resentfully, and he smashed his fist against his leg. "If only they'd come unarmed - if only they'd sent the damned Elves away – if only they'd _asked_ and not _demanded_! We would have negotiated!"

"Shazara! No need to dredge up the whole ill-fated disaster," said Dáin, and his eyes were weary. "We are honourable Dwarves, and we have fulfilled our agreements with Men. We had to part with some of our history to do so, and they were betrayed by one of their own. Thus the armour of the King I was named for lies in the Wastes somewhere, along with Borin's golden helm and the ruby belt worn by the lost Prince Frór, and the corpse of the Master of Laketown. So it is, and there is little we can do about it now."

"You're a damned fool," said Dwalin bluntly.

Dáin laughed his raspy laugh. "Aye, probably. But practical."

Thorin staggered backwards before landing heavily back on his stone bench in the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

"No," he said in a hoarse voice, and his guilt and shame wrestled against the long-held urge to protect his people. "I was wrong. I was _wrong_."

But Dwalin and Óin had a point. He _had_ wanted to save his people's inheritance, and he had been furious at the condescension of the  Bizarûnh and their arrogant demands. He had indeed offered to negotiate with Bard for the ransom of the dragon and the treasures of Dale, _if_ they came unarmed and without their traitorous Elven escort.

They would not listen, and insults had flown back and forth until Thorin could barely see through the red haze of his rage. Thieves, robbers and carrion-crows, the lot of them! In a towering fury, he had asked Bard what (if anything) he would have left for the Dwarves, had he found the Mountain empty and every Dwarf dead. Bard had not answered the question.

And then Bilbo had stepped into the whole convoluted, tangled debacle.

 _Gold-sickness_ , he thought miserably. _Can it ever be separated from the desire to protect my heritage? Am I never to know if I am weak or strong?_

_Oh, my Bilbo, what a mess we wrought._

He put his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

Years passed, and Thorin watched.

He finished a suit of plate armour. It was attractive; functional, and deadly with clean lines and smooth polished surfaces. He placed it on a stand in the corner of his forge and lowered the helm over the top holdings and then tipped his head, regarding it critically.

This had been his life. Beauty in skill, yes – but warlike, a life of defence and offence and bloodshed in battle, entirely Dwarven. He frowned at it, and then he began to wonder what a Hobbit might find useful and beautiful.

He turned his hand to a set of buttons, and failed rather dismally. Undeterred, he tried a plough. It was a definite improvement.

* * *

" _What_ is that boy _doing_?"

Thorin shook his head in amusement. "Your guess is as good as mine."

They watched as Gimli, eighty-nine years old and full-bearded and as merry a warrior as had ever lived, clambered up the steep slopes of the Lonely Mountain with his full armour on.

  


  
  


Gimli, by [ Lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/114470918786/a-legolas-to-keep-my-gimli-company-for)

  


Hrera looked politely incredulous. "He must be touched in the head. That one has had too much sun."

"He's a fine young Dwarrow," Thorin said, and then he wondered why he felt the need to defend him. Surely he hadn't become so fond of the lad?

"Fine young Dwarrow or not, he's going to get sunburnt," she predicted.

She was not wrong. Gimli was reddened and peeling by the time he made it back down from the summit, and Hrera tutted over the state of his braids. "Terrible," she said disapprovingly. "Look at that! Has the boy never used hair oils in his life?"

"Probably not," Thorin said. "He dislikes primping and frippery, as he calls it."

Gimli kept moving through the bustling corridors of Erebor. Voices called out to him, and he raised his hand in greeting and kept moving. Though he was no doubt tired he did not slow at all, and began to hum one of his favourite walking songs. His legs moved rhythmically and unceasingly.

Finally he began to slow outside a crooked sign shaped like a six-pointed star emblazoned with a pair of crossed hook-pointed knives. Beyond the sign was a stone courtyard full of scattered tables, and Dwarves scurried between them carrying platters with tankards of foamy ale.

A cheer greeted Gimli as he neared one table in particular, where approximately seven rowdy young Dwarves, all under a century old if they were a day, sat chattering and drinking. Picks, hammers and tools sat scattered and propped around them, and many faces were covered with grime.

"Is this really appropriate behaviour from the Line of Durin?" said Hrera. "Tsk! Dreadful place. Tell him to leave, Thorin dear."

"It is a tremendously appropriate place," Thorin told her, folding his arms and looking out over the tired and happy faces of his people, relaxing and making merry. He could feel the corners of his mouth uptilting the very slightest amount. After twenty-seven slow, painstaking years of rebuilding and privation, harsh winters and hard work, his people made merry in the halls of Erebor.

Hrera pursed her lips. "Very well," she said finally. "I'll reserve judgement. But mark my words, young Gimli had best behave himself!"

"So, my friends!" Gimli said, and rubbed his hands together. "So! I was the first to make the summit and back, where are my winnings?"

The group of young Dwarves lounging at the benches of Nori's tavern looked up. "Is Lóni not with you?" one said.

Gimli shrugged. "I beat him. His mark was not there, and I have left mine where none could miss it. 'Gimli son of Glóin' is now carved at the peak. I hope you realise that you are drinking in a Mountain with another Dwarf's name on it. I should start charging you rent!"

"I suppose that makes you King, then!" one laughed. Gimli rolled his eyes and waved that away.

"No fear! I would have to be blind drunk to want to be King. Have you seen Dáin lately? He looks like granite pounded by giants! Besides, there are five others in the succession before me, and all of them are _very_ dangerous to cross."

There was a burst of laughter. "Aye, presuming you managed to get past Dáin-"

"-and Barazanthual," interjected another, and the assembled all shuddered at the name of the great red battle-axe.

"—then there's Dáin's son, the Stonehelm," laughed another.

"What's this my dainty ears do hear?" said Nori, clumping towards them with a tray of tankards and a creased grin. "Our Gimli versus the Stonehelm? Now that I'd pay to see."

"No you wouldn't!" cried a Dwarf. "You'd be running the books, you old crook!"

"Aye, we'd be paying _you_!"

Nori winked. "Pack of lies it is, my dears, and I'm ashamed to know you."

"This is _not_ appropriate conversation," Hrera said with towering dissatisfaction.

"I'm not fighting Thorin Stonehelm or anyone else, so lay off, you bunch of rats, and let a body wet his whiskers!" Gimli laughed, shucking his helmet and struggling out of his surcoat and chainmail. "Climbing mountains is thirsty work!"

"See here, Nori, apparently it's Gimli's mountain now," said one of the youngsters, taking a tankard from Nori and nudging him.

"Aye, it's my mountain," Gimli said, taking a sip of his ale and leaning back on his bench in satisfaction. "I very graciously allow you all to live here, of course, and I suppose I'll let Dáin keep running the place for me."

"Oh, now I understand the talk of fighting the Stonehelm," Nori said, stroking his beard. "Well then, I'd give you two to three odds on Gimli versus the Stonehelm, but in the third match, I'm afraid, it's gonna have t' drop to one outta nine."

"And why, may I ask?" Gimli said indignantly. "I'm the finest axeman of my age in the whole of Erebor!"

"Indeed you are, my little Lord," said Nori slyly, "but in the third match you'd be fightin' Dwalin son of Fundin, an' I don't much fancy yer chances."

A groan rose from around the table, and Gimli shook his head. "Alas!" he laughed. "Well, I'd have to bet against myself - and you've already done so well out of me too, you old villain."

"Knew you'd beat Lóni," Nori said in satisfaction. "All right, boys, pay up."

With some grumbling, the assembled drinkers handed Nori a few coins. "Thanking you kindly," he said, grinning broadly. Biting hard on one, he nodded and then slipped them into a pocket. Sitting himself down at the table, he eased his metal leg out in front of him and a knife abruptly appeared in his hands. He absently spun it around his fingers as he raised his braided eyebrows, now liberally streaked with grey. "Well, my brave lads? Not taking me up on my very generous odds?"

Gimli took another sip of his ale and licked the foam from his moustache. "Me, fight Dwalin? You've got to be joking. He taught me most of what I know. I'd be warg-food before the day was out."

"You'd be warg-food before the _minute_ was out," said a Dwarf, and Gimli puffed out his chest in indignation.

"I'll have you know I'd last at least twenty." He suddenly grinned. "Seconds."

The table roared with laughter, and Gimli was nudged and slapped on the back. Nori lifted an eyebrow at his red and wind-burned cheeks, and tugged on one of the braids of his beard. "You're going to want something on that face of yours," he said.

"Like a bag," sniggered a Dwarf, and Gimli kicked him under the table.

"What," said Hrera with massive dignity, "am I missing? Because what I can see is your third cousin once-removed drinking in a shoddy little tavern with his rowdy friends."

"Is that what we are?" Thorin said, looking at Gimli with some surprise. "Third cousins. Indeed."

"Thorin, darling," Hrera said with a warning in her tone.

He looked back at his grandmother, taking in her tapping foot and the glint in her hazel eyes. "Nori was one of my Company," he said simply, and her face immediately softened.

"Oh, I see," she said, and looked back to where the thief was amusing the lads with knife tricks. "He lost that leg at the Battle, then?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, my dear." She patted his cheek comfortingly and sighed. "Oh, you stone-faced Durin men. If you would only _say!_ "

"Grandmother," he growled, and she simply laughed and tweaked his cheek some more.

"Here now, what's this about your brother, Nori?" called one of the youngsters, and the call was echoed by several around the table.

Nori rolled his eyes dramatically. "Do you mean the mother-hen or the scribbler?"

"Dori, of course – is it true?"

"Which part?"

"That he punched out the head of the Miner's Guild in order to become Guildmaster, and broke his jaw!"

"Oh that," Nori said dismissively. "Yeah."

There was a wistful silence, and Thorin covered a smile. Dori would be the first High Guildmaster who was not of the Miners or Smiths Guilds in over five hundred years.

"Oh, don't look so stunned, Dori only broke his jaw a little bit," said Nori. "He'll have to get a couple o' gold teeth too, but it's not like he got his throat slit or nuffin'."

A little sigh echoed around the table, and Thorin shook his head at their longing expressions. His weaver companion was the epitome of Dwarven male beauty, after all, with his silvery hair, classic Stiffbeard nose, thick legs and stout frame. Unfortunately for his many admirers, he was one of the many Dwarrows whose heart was given to their craft. Dori loved his weaving, his brothers, his wines and his tea, and had as much interest in romance as he had in cross-country skiing. Furthermore, he had a punch like a charging oliphaunt.

"Nori, please don't take this the wrong way," said one of the Dwarrows, a trifle dreamily, "but your brother is a gold vein in a mud mine."

"I'll tell him you said so, shall I?" Nori said pleasantly, beginning to clean his nails with his knife.

"Ah, how much do I have to give you not to?"

Nori grinned wickedly. "Let's see your money and I'll name my price."

"You idiots really need to find a new obsession," snorted Thorin – and Gimli chuckled under his breath.

"Tell him, and we'll have Ori, my father and uncle, my cousins, Bofur and probably even Bombur down here to glare at you and cheer Dori on," he said, his eyes dancing with mirth. "I'd like to place a wager, if I may?"

Nori winked at him. "Better believe it, little star. The Company sticks together."

"The Company are weird," said a youngster after a pause.

"That too!" Nori laughed. "Who's for another one then?"

At that moment a remarkably tall and dishevelled Dwarf trudged into the courtyard, his face beet-red and his brown hair dripping from under his helm. "Gimli, you swine!" he roared.

"Hullo, Lóni," said Gimli pleasantly. "Did you enjoy the view from the top of my mountain?"

"I should tear your beard out!" Lóni said, slumping down beside his friend, "but I'm far too tired. Nori, have a heart, an ale please? I will knock some sense into this rogue when I have my breath back."

"Oh, fine words," Gimli mocked him amiably. "You couldn't knock me down with my eyes blindfolded and my hands tied together."

"I should tie your hands together, you wretch," Lóni said gruffly. " ' _Gimli son of Glóin, in the year 2968_ _of our King Dáin II Ironfoot,'_ carved in runes two hands high into the peak of Erebor! And if that weren't enough, you had to add, ' _Lóni son of Laín_ _here suffered a humiliating defeat at his hands.'_ You son of a mangy orc! I could strangle you!"

"Disgraceful," Hrera said absently. "I'll wager you a silver clasp for one of your daggers, Thorin dear? On Gimli to win, of course."

Thorin was too busy laughing to answer.

* * *

"Well, my friend," Dwalin said gruffly to his reflection, tugging at his grey-streaked beard. "Today I'm finally older than you."

Thorin sat beside him. "A hundred and ninety-six. You've beaten me by one. Gamilûn Dwalin, they'll call you."

"A hundred and ninety-six," he sighed, and then he grunted. "Anyone who mocks me had better like the taste o' my knuckles."

Thorin smiled to himself, a small sad smile. "Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin."

"Older than Thorin now." He shook his head. "Ach, Mahal's mighty balls, don't get sentimental," Dwalin growled to himself. "Orla'd tan yer hide if she saw you whining about yer good fortune."

"Dwalin, bâheluh," Thorin said quietly.

They sat together in silence. The pair of them had never cared much for words.

Neither had they ever really needed them in order to speak.

* * *

Balin stood straight and proud, his beard bristling. No trace of his usual kindly humour could be seen in his eyes. "It cannot stand," he said in a low, hard voice. "It cannot be tolerated any longer. Let me go, my Lord. I'll take back our ancestral Halls from those orc-scum, and we will have our sacred places again."

"No," Thrór whispered, and either side of him, Thorin and Thráin pressed against his sides, holding him up as he sagged between them. "No, it is folly... such folly. Durin's Bane stalks those halls, and the orcs that slew me grow in numbers. Stop this madness. Stop it I say!"

"Thorin, inùdoy," said Thráin, looking up at his son with pleading eyes. "Don't let that accursed Mine take any more of our people. Don't let it ruin them. Thorin, _please."_

Thorin met his father's horror-filled gaze and set his jaw. "Aye," he said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and looked over to where Frerin sat, studying his hands with a haunted expression. "Aye, we need no more Azanulbizars."

Dáin straightened on the throne, his manner stern. "We shall have no more Azanulbizars," he said, and Thrór let out a gusty sigh of relief. "Balin, we need your wisdom here. You can't leave me alone to deal with Thranduil and Glóin _both._ "

"Thank Mahal for your gift, m'lad," sighed Thráin, gently cuffing Thorin's head with one great hand.

"We have spilled enough blood trying to retake one home," Thorin said, trying not to look at Frerin. "No more should be spilled to retake another."

Balin's shoulders tensed. "The people speak of it with longing. They whisper that we are growing strong again, strong enough to take back Moria and return it to its glory. King Dáin, our most revered and hallowed Halls, the waking-place of Durin himsel-"

"D'you think I don't know?" Dáin slid down on his throne and rubbed at his brow. The crown had placed a near-permanent dent on either temple, and it looked like it gave him a headache after a few hours of use. Thorin was secretly a little perturbed. Would he have hated it so much?

"My Lord," Balin grated, and Dáin interrupted him with a raised hand.

"Durin's beard, Balin, I can read as well as you can! Yes, Dimrill Dale and the clear waters of Kheled-zâram are barred to us. Yes, the Endless Stair and the mithril mines are lost and in the hands of filth. Yes, the great Halls of Feast and Forge are stolen, and the Seven Levels and Seven Deeps are the home of orcs and monsters. But Balin! We have a _home_ now. Erebor flourishes once again, and the Iron Hills prosper. What did you risk your lives for, if not this?"

"I risked my life for my King. I risked my life because he called," Balin said, drawing himself up and speaking with quiet authority. "Now – now I understand why he wished for this, why he had no other choice. It is a horror than cannot be tolerated, and a shame upon us all."

Dáin sighed. "I am not that King."

Thorin's hand tensed on Thrór's arm. "I did not have the chance to be your King, Balin," he muttered. "I was a warrior first; a soldier who led his people in exile. Statecraft, politics, treaties, compromise, diplomacy – I never practised any of these. Dáin knows more of Kingship than I ever did. Listen to him, not to the memory of my vain pride! Moria is a glittering trap, a fool's hope. Do not do this!"

Thrór shook with anger and long-remembered horror. "Do not do this, son of Fundin," he echoed in a rasping voice.

Dáin slammed his hand against the armrest of the throne. "If the people whisper of Moria with longing, then they also speak of it with dread! It is barely a hundred and seventy years since the head of Thrór was thrown at Nár's feet. Barely a hundred and seventy years since the devastating War between Orcs and Dwarves – an' damned if we haven't fought another great battle since! D'you suppose that we might see at least _one_ generation die peacefully in their beds?" he demanded.

Balin's lips tightened until they were white as his beard. "No Dwarf would choose such a death."

"And yet I would see it happen," Dáin said. "Mahal's bloody hammer, Balin! We _have_ a home, and yet our numbers grow only slowly. No, Balin son of Fundin. I will not approve of Dwarves throwing their lives away."

Thorin watched with a sinking sense of regret as Balin stiffened in outrage. The old advisor turned on his heel and stalked away, and Thráin patted Thorin's shoulder. "Here," he said quietly. "Help me with your grandfather."

Thorin glanced over at his uncharacteristically-still brother, glaring at the backs of his hands. "Frerin..."

"He'll be all right, lad. It takes him like that sometimes." Thráin touched Thorin's shoulder again, and then together they pulled Thrór back to his feet.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._   
>  _All thanks as always to The Dwarrow Scholar and to the superlative persianslipper. :D_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Zabad - lord  
> Abbad – I am here  
> Sakhab - look  
> Zabadâl belkul – Mighty leader  
> Zûr zu? – how are you?  
> shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ – hail and well met!  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad - mother  
> inùdoy - son  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Bizarûnh- the Men of Dale  
> Shazara – silence  
> barufûn - family (man) "kinsman"  
> gamil bâhûn – old friend  
> bâhel - the friend of all friends.  
> Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin. – May your beard continue to grow longer.  
> Gamil(ûn) – old (man, embodies this), thus, _Gamilûn Dwalin = Old Dwalin._
> 
> Dáin I and his second son, Frór, were killed in 2589 TA (Third Age) when a cold-drake invaded the Grey Mountains. His elder son Thrór (grandfather of Thorin) then founded the Kingdom of Erebor, and his younger son Grór took the majority of Durin's Folk to the Iron Hills.
> 
> Borin - son of Náin II and younger brother of Dáin I. Father of Farin. Ancestor to Balin, Dwalin, Óin, Glóin and Gimli Elf-Friend.
> 
>  _Longbeard Line of Succession in 2968 TA: Dáin II "Ironfoot", King of Erebor and Lord of the Iron Hills._  
>  1\. Crown Prince Thorin "Stonehelm"  
> 2\. Balin son of Fundin  
> 3\. Dwalin son of Fundin  
> 4\. Óin son of Gróin  
> 5\. Glóin son of Gróin  
> 6\. Gimli son of Glóin
> 
>  
> 
> _(THANK YOU THANK YOU OMG WAAAH YOU GUYS I JUST GUH)_


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey all!_   
>  _I'm following the advice of a lovely reader and will post a little blurb about each Dwarrowdam at the beginning of each chapter, so you can all meet these fabulous ladies and learn the backstories I have created for them. Today's featured lady is Frís, but we will also meet Dís, Mizim, Gimrís, Bomrís, Orla, Hrera, Alrís, Barís, Zhori, and Queen Thira._
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**  
>  _Frís Daughter of Aís_  
>     
> Frís was the daughter of a wealthy Guildmaster, Folgar, and his musician wife Aís. She did not have the height of the great Longbeard families, being only 4'4". Her hair was wheat-gold, and her eyes a very striking blue. She was exceptionally intelligent, very perceptive and shrewd, but also extremely compassionate, though she had a tendency to daydream at times. Her craft was wire-working, and she also made strings and cords for instruments. She married Thráin son of Thrór quite young and bore three children, the two eldest of which inherited her blue eyes. Her great joy was her harp, a joy she passed on to her oldest son Thorin and her daughter Dís (her middle child, Frerin, preferred the fiddle). Frís was killed when the dragon attacked Erebor in 2770 TA.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _..._   
>  **EDIT: The amazing Jeza-red has drawn Frís! You can find it[here](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/55839826824/fris-daughter-of-eis-fris-was-the-daughter-of-a) :DDDD OMG I am so happy!**   
> 

Thorin had been dead for thirty-eight years.

The preparations for Gimli's hundredth birthday had been lavish. Glóin spared no expense for his beloved star, and the gifts were everything a young warrior could want.

Thorin made a special point of witnessing the lad's celebration. Fíli and Kíli spent all their time gawking at Gimrís, and Frerin did naught but complain that he couldn't drink the very fine spirit Bilbo had sent from the Shire for the occasion. Bifur was entertaining himself by walking _through_ people. It was a very unnerving sight.

Balin gave him a fine new brigandine, the shoulders decorated with golden-plated mail, the links embossed with the ancient patterns for the Line of Durin and for the Longbeards. Gimli's eyes glowed with appreciation at the work, and he put it on immediately. Dwalin gave the lad a helm to match, with fierce cheek-guards and golden knotwork. Dáin gifted him a full hauberk of steel mail, and Gimli exclaimed loudly as he lifted it. It was no new work – the mail was obviously from the treasure of Thrór. He eventually found the maker's mark, and sat down sharply. It had been made by none other than Náin II, his royal ancestor. Dís handed it to him, as Dáin could not leave the evening audiences until much later.

"I cannot accept this," he breathed. "It is too much!"

"You can and will, little star," Dís said, shaking her head affectionately. "You would be foolish not to! Now, here is my gift, and Mahal's blessing on your naming day."

"Thank you, Aunt Dís," he said, dazed as he accepted it. The bag fell away to reveal a pair of very familiar throwing axes. He looked up, his eyes wide and white. She smiled.

"Fíli would like you to have them, no doubt," she said.

Behind her, Fíli's shoulders straightened. "Yes, he'll use them," he said to himself. "They'll serve him well, I think."

Gimli looked back down at the axes, and then carefully slipped them into his boots and stood. "Thank you," he said, and swallowed.

"Don't try running with them for too long," Fíli said to his cousin. "You'll scrape all the skin off your ankles!"

The Ri Brothers had banded together and had made him a beautiful warm woollen travelling surcoat with a matching pair of trousers. The stitching around the edges was hardy and strong, and the colour was a warm rusty brown that made the red of his beard appear brighter. "Thank you!" Gimli said, and held it up to admire the gold thread interwoven through the edges.

"Here now," said Bombur. "This is from all o' us."

His wife Alrís was a tanner, and she had made Gimli a tooled leather belt with crossed straps for the new throwing axes. Gimli made a wordless sound of delight as he pulled it on over his new brigandine and belted it firmly. "You have all been in league with each other, I see! Now I am kitted from head to toe!"

"Not quite, my son," said Glóin with a fond smile. "Here."

Gimli's face lit up with joy and love when his father handed over his axes, with his blessing. "Truly?" the lad – well, he could no longer in any way be called a lad – breathed.

"Wield them well, my son," Glóin said, and bent to press his leonine head against Gimli's. "Proud of you, nidoy."

"Thank you, 'adadel," Gimli said in a voice that was tight with pride and happiness. "Thank you."

Gimrís, ninety-two years old and as stunning as the sun, made a noise in the back of her throat. "Well, here," she said brusquely, handing over a package. "I made it."

Gimli took the package and unwrapped it carefully. Revealed was an exquisite glass goblet with Gimli's name etched on the base in Cirth, and a pattern of stars around the rim encrusted in diamonds as small as the tip of a needle. "Gimrís," he said in awe. "You made this?"

She bristled. "What, are you calling me a liar?"

"No, no!" he laughed, and tugged her close for a hug. "It is glorious, a masterwork! You could gain your mastery with this, and you give it to me?"

"Well," she said, uncomfortable in his embrace, "I suppose you're not completely awful."

He rolled his eyes, and then he leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Namadith. You're not always a brat."

"That's as close as they'll ever get, I suppose," Mizim said with a sigh, dabbing at her eyes.

Gimli held up his goblet proudly. "Do you see what my sister has made? Isn't it remarkable?"

"Now, there's a piece of work," said Bombur. "Look, Alrís! Come see what Gimli has!"

"A moment, dear, Albur has gotten into the roast boar and is trying to make himself sick by eating the whole thing himself," Alrís called back cheerfully, bustling after her brood. "ALBUR SON OF BOMBUR, GET YOURSELF DOWN HERE THIS MINUTE!"

[ ](http://godofmischieffoal.tumblr.com/post/74046372529/alris-daughter-of-geris-based-on-bomburs-wife)

  


_Alrís, daughter of Gerís. Doll created by[godofmischieffoal](http://godofmischieffoal.tumblr.com/post/74046372529/alris-daughter-of-geris-based-on-bomburs-wife)._

"It's a fine piece, Miss Gimrís," said Bombur, giving her an awkward little bow. It was becoming harder and harder for poor Bombur to walk. His injury and age were beginning to catch up to him. Eventually, Thorin feared, the large friendly Dwarf would become restricted to a chair.

"My lad!" Óin roared effusively, coming to grab Gimli's shoulders. It seemed he had been sampling the ales a little too freely, and his beaming face was flushed. He weaved on the spot as he stood, his knees loose and wobbly. "Nidoyel, may yer beard grow ever longer and longer, my nephew, khuzd belkul, our grumpy little Gimli! A hundred years old! Ach, Glóin, Mizim, you remember the day this one came a-squallin' into the world? I knew then we'd have a fighter on our hands - and what a voice! A set o' lungs on the bairn that echoed even in _my_ ears!"

"Aye, and is that why you dropped him?" Glóin said, his eyebrow arching. Mizim folded her arms, her eyes glinting rather dangerously. Óin let go of Gimli's shoulders like hot coals.

"Ah, er..."

"Óin dropped the baby?" said Bombur incredulously.

"Aye, right on his precious wee head. Lucky he's a Dwarf, or it could have hurt him!"

"Lucky he landed on his _head_ , you mean," Gimrís said. "Did the floor tiles crack?"

Gimli scowled at her.

"He wouldn't stop wriggling!" Óin said. "I hadn't delivered a babby before. He was the first – I was nervous!"

Mizim made an incredulous noise at the back of her throat, and both eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline. " _You_ were nervous!?"

"All that red hair, just like our ma," Óin said, his face creasing fondly in remembrance. "He weren't impressed with his first look at the world, and he sure let me know it. What a set o' lungs!"

"All right, you can stop now," Gimli said crossly.

"You pair were no help at all," said Mizim, shaking her head and laughing. "Y' hadn't finished with _me,_ and there you were dropping the baby!"

Gimli rolled his eyes to the ceiling, before covering his face with both hands and groaning loudly.

"Poor little mite, dropped on his head - an' Mizim swearin' a blue streak an' all, an' Glóin about to faint wi' first-time-father jitters," Óin crooned, patting the mortified Gimli's cheek. "Still, it didn't faze him at all! He just roared at me some more, an' when I picked him back up he straightaway soiled himself all down the front o' my apron t' teach me a lesson."

Kíli and Frerin caught each other's expressions and exploded into howls of laughter.

"Please," Gimli said very stiffly. "Stop."

Gimrís was trying in vain to muffle her snickers by biting down on her hand. Gimli scowled at her. "You wait til it's your turn. Eight years, sister. Watch your back."

"Aye, not long until you've reached your centenary, little lass," said Glóin, smiling at her.

She tossed her head. "If you tell such stories about me, I'll put an emetic in your food."

"Tell such stories about who?" Bofur said as he came towards them, smiling. "Did I miss a joke?"

"About our fiery lass here," said Óin. "My niece Gimrís."

"Oh right, forgot you had a..." Bofur trailed off as he turned to Gimrís, and his eyes widened hugely. "Niece."

Gimrís eyed Bofur right back, her lower lip slack and her usually sarcastic expression strangely young and open. Glóin and Mizim both took a step back, eyes narrowing. Bombur's mouth dropped open in astonishment as the two continued to stare at each other.

Kíli glanced between them, and then he whimpered, "Oh _no!"_

Óin carried on blithely. "Oh, aye! She's a glassblower, you know, an' she's been workin' with me at the healin' school. A right proper apprentice she is! An', of course, I don't have to pay so much for the glasses and jars we need, which is not t' be sneezed at. A penny saved is... well, it's saved, an' that's good eh?"

"Your niece," Bofur said, his voice oddly weak.

"Gimrís, aye." Óin squinted at Bofur. "I'm sure you've met."

Gimrís nodded her head. "Yes, we did," she said, and she bit down on her lip. "I was a child."

He laughed softly. "You beat me at conkers."

She laughed too, her cheeks faintly reddening. "You look different."

"You're not in your travelling things," he said, and then he smiled. "You grew up."

She dropped her exquisite eyes. "I'm ninety-two now."

"And _I saw her first!"_ Fíli snapped. "Thorin, tell him to keep his grubby hands to himself!"

Thorin shook his head. "Not for all the world."

"If you do," Bifur added, his face alive with gladness, "I will knock out every one of your teeth."

Bofur's breath caught, and then he smiled, though there was no happiness in it. "Well, it's a celebration to remember, don't you think? You must be proud o' your brother. Hope you've been able t' chat to someone more interestin' than these old men."

"You're not old," she said quickly – too quickly.

"Hundred an' sixty-one," Bofur mumbled, still staring at Gimrís. "Old enough."

"That's not old," she said, smiling gently at him, her lovely face aglow.

"Khuzd tada bijebî âysîthi mud oshmâkhî dhi zurkur ughvashâhu, oh, never thought I would live to see the day," Bifur said happily.

"You didn't," said Fíli sourly.

"Oh, hush," Thorin told his grousing nephews, a lump in his throat. "Bofur is falling in love, his dearest wish, and they have the time to be together. That is no small thing."

Fíli looked back at Thorin, and then his eyes softened in understanding.

"What in the name of Durin?" Gimli said to himself, his nose wrinkling. Then his breath caught and he looked back at his sister in shock.

"Don't interfere," Thorin said to him sternly. "This is something Bofur has longed for. I would see him happy."

Gimli made a confused little sound under his breath, and then shook his head and wandered off in search of his friends.

"D'you want an ale then?" Bofur blurted, and then he pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Mahal save us, that was embarrassing. Oh, I'm babbling somethin' awful. Don't listen to me."

She laughed again and took his arm, threading her hand through the crook of his elbow. "No, don't be embarrassed. You're ridiculous."

He groaned.

She pinched his elbow and smiled gently. "And it's charming. I like it."

Bofur made a squashed-animal noise, and Thorin chuckled.

Gimrís chuckled as well, though she sounded rather nervous. She tipped her vibrant head, her eyes shining and her cheeks still tinted pink. "Um. Bofur? I - I'd love an ale, please."

Bofur peeked out from under his hat to gawk at her hand resting upon his arm with a stunned expression, and then he smiled so brightly that Thorin actually ached to see it. As Bofur led Gimrís away to the barrels, he sighed deeply. "At least one of us will see their wish fulfilled, my friend," he murmured. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

"You sentimental old thing," Frerin sniggered, poking his side. Thorin ignored him with as much dignity as he could muster – which was a lot.

Glóin drew Mizim aside. "Did what I just think happened actually happen?"

"You've got eyes," she said under her breath. "Yes, our daughter is diving headlong into courting faster than a dropped hammer, and you, you old bear, are going to respect her wishes and leave Bofur alone, d'you hear?"

"I wouldn't hurt him!" he protested. "He's of the Company! I'd just... I'd just scare him a little."

"You won't shame our daughter that way," she hissed. "It's her life to do with as she pleases. We'll support her. Bofur's a good Dwarf. Great Mahal, Glóin, you've known him for forty years!"

"He's seventy years her senior," he grumbled.

"And that's _nothing._ Alrís is forty years older than Bombur! For heavens' sake, King Dáin is that much older than Queen Thira!"

"I don't like it," Glóin said, and aimed a glare in Bofur's direction.

"You don't have to," she said, and pinched his chin, turning his head back to face her. "Gimrís does. I know you're a protective old bear, Glóin, but you're going to have to let go of her eventually."

He scowled, and then he sagged. "Aye. Just didn't think it'd be so soon."

"She's been of age for twenty-two years, you sweet old fool," Mizim said gently. "Come now. Today is for Gimli. We can forge the path for our daughter another day."

Glóin took her hand and kissed it, before tucking it against his chest. "Aye," he said heavily. "Aye, my jewel." Then he grunted. "Better Bofur than a few others I could name."

"That's the spirit," she said, and kissed him.

Thorin watched them go, and then his attention was caught by a crowd of Dwarves all whispering in hushed and excited voices, their heads close. Gimli was amongst them, drinking ale from his beautiful new goblet. His old teacher Náli and his dear friend Lóni were also with them, and Lóni's new husband Frár was a silent rock at his side.

To Thorin's surprise, Ori was also there. The scribe was very rarely free of his many duties to Dáin or to the records. Dáin must have given him the evening to attend the celebration.

"...Flói says that their numbers are much reduced," one of them was saying as Thorin approached. "We could take it back! Imagine it!"

Gimli frowned. "The battle was nigh forty years ago."

This was waved away. "Dáin will not give us leave willingly," said another. "But I hear Lord Balin means to start a colony with whomever will go!"

Thorin's blood froze in his veins.

"The orcs can't possibly have repopulated the Misty Mountains so quickly," Frár said in his deep, quiet voice. "We must take this chance to seize what is ours."

"How many are going?" Gimli asked.

"About sixty, sixty-five so far," said Náli, the old white-haired training-master.

"Too many," Thorin whispered. " _One_ Dwarf is too many, let alone sixty-five!"

Gimli frowned.

"We have Lord Balin!" said Lóni with satisfaction. "Where he leads, many will follow. Everyone knows how wise that one is."

"Except when he lets his damn-fool love of tradition get the better of him!" Thorin said, his anger rising.

"Are you all set on it?" Gimli asked, taking a sip of his ale.

"Aye," said Náli.

Gimli's eyebrows shot up. "Ori?"

"I'm going," Ori said calmly. He was little-changed physically from the Dwarf who had blustered and fretted in Bilbo's dining room so long ago, but his manner was vastly different. This Ori was less innocent and a great deal more confident. Thorin wished that one had not come at the expense of the other. "It's an opportunity a scribe and historian can't possibly pass up."

"It would be something indeed to see the wonders of Khazad-dûm," said Gimli thoughtfully.

"No, cousin!" Thorin all but shouted. "Do not go to that cursed place!"

"The wonders we will see," said Lóni wistfully. "Walking in the footsteps of Durin himself. The Endless Stair, the Seven Levels and the Seven Deeps, the Halls of Feast and Forge..."

"The Balrog," Thorin spat.

Gimli's shoulders tensed. "Aye, but what of Durin's Bane?"

Many faces blanched, but several Dwarves scoffed loudly. "An ancient thing long turned to dust! We have naught to fear from old tales!"

"We reclaimed Erebor from a dragon," Ori said, the corners of his mouth tilting. "Thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit. I learned, y'know, what it is to have a cause, and the nerve to back it. You just got to get a bit o' iron in your spine."

"Ori," Thorin said helplessly, and then he scrubbed his face with his hands. "No, not Ori. Youngest of us all, little Ori in your knitted gloves... Ori, you are but a hundred and eleven! I cannot... Ori, in _Moria,_ your brothers..."

"Frár?" asked Náli, his old white chin thrust out in challenge.

"Where Lóni goes, I go," Frár said simply.

"Gimli, will you go with us?" Lóni said, grabbing Gimli's arm, his eyes alight with excitement. "Just think – we will reclaim our ancient home, you and I!"

"Kinsman," Thorin said wretchedly. "Please, Gimli. Please. You have only just reached your first century. I would see you reach another naming day – I would see you reach a grand old age and find the peace and happiness I could not. Gimli, son of Glóin, you are his star! Your mother and sister would weep. Dís would be devastated. Gimli, ikhuzh! Please, do not do this! Please – pride is the most foolish of reasons to die!"

Gimli's head lowered and he took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. "I do not fear the darkness," he said. "I do not fear the deeps of Moria. I would look upon the Endless Stair with my own eyes, and see the Halls of Feast and Forge, and gaze from the bridge of Khazad-dûm into the Unending Chasm."

"Then come with us!" Lóni said. "Frár and I will go, and Ori will join us. Flói is coming, and Náli! I hear Balin is even trying to recruit some others of the Company. It just needs you, Gimli – we could do with your axe and your laughter by our side!"

Gimli wetted his lips, and Thorin's heart pounded loudly in his ears. "Cousin," he said again, "cousin, I would not see you lose your bright young life and wake in these cold Halls. Not again. Not if I could help it. You are dear to me, azaghîth, little warrior. I could not bear to see you die."

It was a sobering realisation. He was _fond_ of Gimli, and the thought of losing him was a hammer-blow to the stomach. The lad had first been simply a curiosity; a brash, loud, boisterous youngster who heard Thorin's voice better than any other Dwarf, and there ended his use to him. Then Thorin had found him distracting, a balm against the crushing boredom of death and the depressing gloom of newly-reclaimed Erebor. Then he had been amusing, and Thorin had begun to look forward to his antics and merry laughter.

At some point in those thirty-eight years, Thorin had come to love the lad. He'd watched him grow from an impulsive and rambunctious adolescent to a poetic, insightful, witty, faithful, and steady Dwarrow. Gimli was dear to him. He could not be prouder of his achievements if he had accomplished them himself.

"Gimli," Thorin said in a low, pleading voice. "Inùdoy."

Gimli took another sip of his ale and licked his moustache clean. Then he set his goblet down on a table and turned back to Lóni. "I will stay here," he said finally. "Perhaps one day I will visit your colony. But my heart still belongs to my family and to the Mountain. After all, is it not mine? It's got my name written at its peak; I can't very well leave it for some other Dwarf to claim!"

Lóni looked disappointed. "I cannot convince you? Your uncle seems interested..."

"Aye, well, my uncle is more than a little deep in his cups," Gimli laughed, and clapped Lóni's back. "Ask him again when he is sober!"

* * *

Not long after Gimli's nameday, Dwalin was completely blindsided by a proposal of courtship from his deputy, the stony, severe Orla. He had been so surprised he actually said _yes_.

  
  


_Orla, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/61627713972/orla-once-more-d-this-time-more-than-just-a)_

Thorin was mystified. He never would have considered his old friend and cousin as a prospective partner to anyone at all, and had long thought Dwalin totally devoted to his warcraft and soldiery. At first glance Orla appeared much the same. She had a dark grim face which showed no signs of ever smiling, rough warrior's hands suited to wielding an axe or spear, a shock of wild Blacklock hair tied in a utilitarian topknot, and a level stare that could cut through steel.

To Thorin's astonishment, they appeared to be quite content. Neither was terribly demonstrative, neither liked to waste words, and they were both dedicated warriors. Together they were quiet and tender, compared to the steely, stern mask they had to present to their soldiers.

One of Dwalin's troops made the mistake of joking about the relationship.

No-one made that mistake ever again.

Upon a cold night three years after Gimli's centenary and almost forty-one years after the death of Smaug, Thorin entered the pool of Gimlîn-zâram to sit by his dearest friend's side. He could not reach out and steady Dwalin's shoulder, but he hoped his words could reach out and steady his nerves.

"Strength to you, Dwalin," he murmured. "My right hand, you have never lacked courage. It will be fine; you'll see."

Dwalin bunched his tattooed fists against his knees and stared at the fire, unmoving.

Finally Óin pushed the door open with his shoulder, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "All right, you can stop yer frettin; here's who was makin' all the commotion," he said, smiling.

Dwalin accepted the squalling bundle, his huge hands awkward and shaking, his face awed and white. Óin patted his shoulder.

"A healthy boy," he said simply. Dwalin's one good eye began to glisten and his face began to crumple as he stared down into the face of his son.

"Congratulations, my friend," Thorin said. "He's a handsome lad. Thank goodness he looks nothing like you."

Dwalin looked up. "Orla?"

"She's fine. Recovering beautifully," Óin reassured him, and Dwalin looked down at the boy again. His hands trembled as they examined the tiny little hands, the downy little chin, the squashed nose and red face with its soft chubby cheeks. A shock of dark brown hair graced the baby's head, almost reminiscent of Dwalin's old mohawk.

"Hello, my boy," he said softly. "Hello Thorin, son of Dwalin."

"Oh, you did _not_ ," said Thorin in disgust.

* * *

Five years after the birth of Wee Thorin (as he was now commonly known), Nori died.

It had been sudden. A game in his tavern went awry, and with his missing leg he did not move in time. The Ironfist Dwarf plunged his knife straight into Nori's throat, and he died almost immediately, a look of shock and irritation on his face.

"You bloody stupid noble twit," were Nori's first words to Thorin, and he lowered his head and laughed softly.

"Aye, guilty as charged. But at least I wasn't killed over a rigged game of conkers."

" _Don't_ mention that game," Nori snapped, and then reached out blindly to grasp Thorin's hand. Thorin took it firmly, and then dragged the thief into a hug.

"Welcome, Nori son of Zhori."

"Tashf!" Bifur snapped, and then launched himself at Nori and wrapped him in his arms. Nori gasped as all the air was knocked out of him.

"Mahal below, what the..." he choked."Bifur, hang on a bleedin' second, let a body get his breaf back..."

"He's a little excited to see you," said Fíli dryly.

"Nah, really? Do tell," Nori managed.

"D'you think he'll do that to each one of the Company as they arrive?" Kíli wondered.

"Yes," Bifur said emphatically. "I will, and stop talking about me as if I weren't here."

"Wait a mo, he's speaking in _Westron_...!"

"He does that now," Kíli said. "It's getting him to stop that's the trick. Hello Nori!"

"Hello, my likely lads, and don't you sound fine. I don't suppose you two boys can tell me where a Dwarf can find a tavern in the afterlife? Dying really takes it out of you, and I'd like to put it back, if you get my drift."

"Everything you could ever want is here," Fíli said expansively, slapping Nori's back. Nori made to brace himself, but then seemed to remember that he had both legs, and relaxed.

"Except the obvious," Kíli added.

"Well, _I'd_ like a ticket back to all my lovely money. Me dears, I seem to suddenly be a little embarrassed in the ol' funds department. You wouldn't begrudge your old mate Nori a drink, would you?"

Thorin rubbed his temples, understanding Dori's frustrations for the first time. Nori was picking Bifur's pocket by feel, even as they spoke. Not even dying could change him.

Dead, yes. Retired? _Never._

* * *

There was a surprise in store for Thorin the next day when he paid his regular morning visit to Bilbo.

"Who in Mahal's name is that!?" he snapped the minute he laid eyes on the young lad. He was barely grown, probably still underage, and his curly hair was quite dark though his complexion was very pale. He had large blue eyes and a vaguely sad air. Two heavy bags were looped over his shoulders.

"Frodo?" Bilbo said, leading the way into Bag End with a satchel in his arms. "Frodo, m'lad, did you want to choose your room first?"

The young Hobbit nodded silently, and followed Bilbo through the smial towards the bedrooms. Thorin followed, fuming.

"Is this one all right?" the boy said, opening a door. Bilbo beamed, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. Thorin wanted to trace them with his fingers, to kiss them and feel them pucker beneath his lips as Bilbo laughed.

He wanted to know who that young whelp was, following Bilbo around like a lost puppy!

"Any one you like, dear boy," Bilbo said. "That one is a particularly good room if I do say so myself. It was mine until I grew up, you know, and it has a tremendously useful loose floorboard underneath the bed. Good for all sorts of things, that."

The boy looked confused, as though hearing such things out of the mouths of adults was not something he was used to. "You... don't mind me having a secret hiding place?"

"Heavens no, Frodo m'boy. I have so many secrets they positively leak out of my ears; why in the world would I mind you having secrets of your own? Come on, put your bags down, and let's go see about elevensies, shall we?"

Frodo put his bags down on the bed gingerly. Thorin scowled at him.

Bilbo tossed the satchel onto the bed almost as an afterthought, and put a friendly arm around Frodo's shoulders. "Now, it might be a bit quiet here after Brandy Hall, I'm sure. There's only me, and I'm an odd old duck and very set in my ways. We'll just have to get used to each other."

Frodo was staring with puzzled fascination at all the maps and pictures on the walls as Bilbo led him down a corridor. Thorin stamped after them, his face a thundercloud.

"What's that?" Frodo said, awed, as they turned a corner and a picture of Rivendell was revealed directly opposite.

"Hmm? Oh, that's the valley of Imladris, my boy. I used to visit now and then; practice my Sindarin, you understand. Although I'm sure Elladan was making fun of my accent last time."

"Rivendell!" Frodo took a step forward out from underneath Bilbo's arm, his large blue eyes wide. "Do you think I will ever see it?"

Thorin folded his arms and glared at the back of the boy's head.

Bilbo laughed, tugging Frodo away. "Perhaps, perhaps! For the meantime, I'd much prefer to see the kettle boiling!"

Thorin watched Bilbo putter around his kitchen as the boy studied the picture further. Forty-eight years after the Battle of Five Armies, and Bilbo had not aged very much at all. His hair had turned flyaway and greyish but it was still as full and curly as ever, and his face was a little lined but not parchment-thin, spotted or soft with the passage of time. He was still quite sprightly, especially for a Hobbit that was fast approaching a hundred years old.

"There's muffins in the pantry, Frodo!" Bilbo called to the lad in the hallway, and the boy blinked, shaking himself out of his fascination with the (blasted, cursed) Elves' sanctuary.

"Yes, Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo said with one last longing look at Rivendell, before racing down the corridor. Thorin's lips parted on a soft breath of surprise.

Then he berated himself for an idiot and a fool.

"An uncle?" He turned to Bilbo. "I didn't know you had siblings. How could I not know that about you?"

He was a little disconcerted. Thorin wanted to know _everything_ about Bilbo. Everything. He could not fulfil his promise otherwise.

Bilbo hummed under his breath as he put together the table, pulling milk and sugar out of his cold-store and taking down a jar of biscuits. Then he leaned on his kitchen table. The veneer of energy washed away, and Thorin could see just how _tired_ his Hobbit looked.

"It's the right thing to do," Bilbo said to himself, and he touched the second place setting with a gentle forefinger, a pensive little smile crossing his lips. "Poor lad, he was lost amongst all those hooligan Brandybucks. He's an adventuresome and clever young Hobbit, and he deserves better than to be all on his own in the middle of a crowd. My cousins would want me to provide for him, and who better to inherit this old place?"

"A cousin then," Thorin murmured, and then he smiled. "And confusion to the Sackville-Bagginses."

Bilbo's smile widened and he dropped his head and snickered against his chest. "Ha! Lobelia will beat me about the head with her umbrella when she hears the news."

"The blueberry muffins, Uncle Bilbo?" came a shout from the hallway.

"That's right!" Bilbo shook himself out of his reverie. "And if you wouldn't mind, do pick up a cheese and perhaps some of the raspberry preserves. I have some lovely bread from Michel Delving, and I think we should make a little party of it, don't you? We can celebrate you coming to live with me!"

Frodo returned with his arms laden, and the two Hobbits set their food out as the kettle began to whistle. Thorin hovered over Bilbo's shoulder, watching as his little knife sliced through tomatoes and pickles with practiced ease. He'd long grown used to seeing Bilbo's proficiency in the kitchen, though it never failed to make his mouth quirk. Why was one blade so different to another? Perhaps he should have suggested that the Burglar dice his enemies.

"There!" Bilbo brought over the tomatoes and pickles along with a little dollop of relish and the cheese. "Quite a feast! Shall we?"

Frodo carefully wrapped a potholder around his hand and brought over the kettle, and Bilbo lifted the teapot lid for him to add the water. Then the two of them settled in, and Thorin resigned himself to waiting. Nothing interrupted a Hobbit at mealtimes.

Eventually Bilbo pushed his plate back and sighed in contentment. Thorin was pleased to see that he had eaten more this time than he had previously. For a Hobbit, Bilbo had remained strangely thin and his appetite had never quite recovered after his 'adventure'. "Now, Frodo-lad," he said, picking up his cup of tea. "I'm not going to insist on any sort of rules or anything silly like that. At twenty-one you're quite old enough to decide for yourself what you want to do, and you're a sensible sort. Besides, as I said, I'm rather odd and old and set in my ways. We'll sort it out as we go, what do you say?"

Frodo's blue eyes lifted from his plate, his mouth full. He swallowed hurriedly. "Yes, Uncle Bilbo."

"Good lad! I'm sure we'll be able to make room for each other's little peculiarities. I do have a few requests, if that is all right?"

"Um. Yes?" Frodo looked slightly lost, and Thorin realised that the boy wasn't used to having his opinion sought after. He folded his arms with a grunt of approval. Bilbo would be good for him.

"Eat whenever you're hungry, and don't bother with permission! You're welcome to any room in the smial, and you and your friends may explore as much as you like. Only, if I'm in my study, please try to keep the noise to a dull roar? And don't mess up the order of the papers on my desk! I know it looks like pandemonium, but it's actually a _very_ careful system. I know where everything is, and everything is where I want it. Um. Oh yes! Rummage about as much as you like. I've got lots of curious little things from my travels. Most of them have a story attached and I'm not shy about telling them, so come and ask! I dare say I have too many belongings, so if you break anything you'll be doing me a great favour. If you'd like to read anything, don't hesitate! Any of the books are yours to go through. I have some lovely books, you know."

"I saw," Frodo said, fidgeting with the tablecloth. "Most of them are in Elvish."

Bilbo blinked, the teacup halfway to his mouth. Then he put it down in the saucer with a _click!_ "Bless me, of course! You can't read Elvish, can you? Well, would you like to?"

Frodo's eyes widened to impossible size, and then he nodded quickly. "Oh, yes please!"

Thorin made a thoroughly irritated noise under his breath. "Ach, _khuthûzh_!" he growled, and gritted his teeth.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. "If I were able, I'd teach you more than just Sindarin, Frodo-lad, but I'm afraid my Quenya is rather shoddy and I never learned more than a few words of Khuzdul. Mostly swearing, which is unfortunate."

"What's... Khuz...?" Frodo looked awed.

"Khuzdul," Bilbo corrected him. "The secret language of the Dwarves. Don't let them know I know!"

Frodo laughed delightedly. "Uncle Bilbo! When will _I_ ever get to meet a Dwarf? I'm just a Hobbit!"

Bilbo sobered quickly, and he put his hand over Frodo's. "Frodo Baggins," he said, his face very, very serious. "There is no such thing as _just a Hobbit._ "

"Oh, you know," Frodo said, and squirmed uncomfortably at Bilbo's sudden, piercing attention. "I'm just Frodo. I'm not anyone special."

Bilbo squeezed Frodo's hand sharply. "My dear lad," he said solemnly, "I'm _just_ Bilbo Baggins, and Bilbo Baggins is _just_ a Hobbit. And I am telling you right now, Frodo m'boy, that there is more to Hobbits than anyone ever expects."

Thorin smiled to himself. "Even stubborn, blind, arrogant Dwarves."

"Even idiots with their great heads stuffed firmly up their backsides," added Bilbo, his mouth twitching. Thorin started in surprise, and then shook his head, laughing softly beneath his breath.

"Blasted creature." How he wished... oh, how he _wished._ His arms ached to hold the infuriating little Burglar. He wanted to touch Bilbo's curly hair, and to feel those nimble little hands against the nape of his neck. He longed to kiss that quick and clever mouth, to nip that sharp tongue with his teeth. "Blasted, ridiculous, _absurd_ Hobbit."

"I dare say you'll know plenty of folk who will tell you otherwise," Bilbo continued. "Ignore them. You can meet Wizards and Elves and Men and perhaps even Dwarves if you want to, and never mind what the narrow-minded have to say! The world is very big and full of wonderful things, Frodo-lad, and we are very small. But small can make a big difference, I have found.

"So keep that head high! You are a fine Hobbit, and that is no bad thing to be." Bilbo patted Frodo's hand once more, and then sipped his tea. "Oh, drat, it's cold. Well, that will teach me to wax philosophical during elevensies; I must remember not to do it again."

Both Frodo and Thorin laughed, and Bilbo smiled at the boy, pleased he had made him more cheerful. "You'll forget," Thorin told him fondly.

"Fine, so I may forget," Bilbo conceded. "I'm old. I'm allowed a little forgetfulness here and there."

"You're not that old, are you Uncle?" Frodo asked.

"Old enough, and I'll thank you not to ask cheeky questions!"

* * *

"...And if you please, Great Maker, I'd be personally obliged if you'd see your way to having a Hobbit live here in the Halls. He's a nice Hobbit, and he doesn't smell or anything. I told you about him last time. And the time before that. And the time before that. And the time before that..."

"I recall."

"He doesn't take up any room hardly at all, and he's got nice hair, and he has even less beard than me. Frankly we could do with a few more clean-shaven fellows around to make me feel better. Why did you make me with such a bare face? It's so embarrassing!"

"If I gave you a beard, would you leave me alone?!"

"Oh! Oh... difficult choice. No, no – Uncle Thorin first. I'm a loyal Dwarrow, and he deserves to be happy. I hope he knows what a supreme sacrifice I'm making for him."

* * *

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You can hit me up on[my tumblr](determamfidd.tumblr.com) for random fandom flailings. :D_
> 
>    
> Khuzd tada bijebî âysîthi mud oshmâkhî dhi zurkur ughvashâhu – a Dwarf that chooses to take a wife must guard her as his greatest treasure  
> Khuthûzh - Elves  
> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Namadith – little sister  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'adadel – father of all fathers  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> khudz belkul – mighty dwarf  
> Tashf - move!
> 
>    
>  _Holy guacamole you people make me ridiculously happy and grateful. Thank you all so much for reading! Your reviews and kudoseses (???) make me grin like a Dwarf in a diamond mine._


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _OKAY YOU ALL NEED TO SEE THIS. The amazing and lovely[jeza-red](jeza-red.tumblr.com) has made art of [Gimrís](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/54983691616/my-take-on-a-character-of-a-dwarrowlady-that-is)_.
> 
> _*wordless happy flailing*_
> 
> _It is beautiful and spot-on and you should totally go see it!_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Bomrís daughter of Honrís_
> 
>   
>  [](http://godofmischieffoal.tumblr.com/post/74043613338/bomris-daughter-of-honris-based-on-bifurs)   
>    
>  _Bomrís daughter of Honrís. Doll created by[gofofmischieffoal](http://godofmischieffoal.tumblr.com/post/74043613338/bomris-daughter-of-honris-based-on-bifurs)_   
> 
> 
> .
> 
> Bomrís is rather introverted, gentle and careful. A thin, quiet, black-haired Dwarrowdam, her poverty has made her tired and resigned at times. She raised her younger brother Bomfur when she was little more than a child herself, after their parents were lost in a cave-in. She loves her small family to pieces and often went without so that Bifur, her enthusiastic and ebullient son, could eat. Bifur (who in temperament is rather like his father Kifur) is loud and boisterous with everyone except her. She was a miner, specialising in copper and tin. Bomrís died from inhaling black smoke from a mine excavation in Ered Luin.
> 
> * * *

The first was Flói, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.

"Such fools," he whispered, and his voice was hoarse and full of horror. "We are such fools. Blinded to everything but our pride..."

It was as though Flói's arrival was the leak that began a flood.

Dwarf after Dwarf, pale-faced and shaking, woke up in the Halls of Mahal. Their useless, blind eyes all stared in terror, each telling the same story.

"They cannot get out!" screamed a Dwarrow named Kúlin as he woke, and his shouts rang through the Halls, echoing over the ringing of hammers. "They cannot get out! _They cannot get out!_ "

Thorin held onto Fíli and Kíli's hands as tightly as he dared. Frerin clung to Frís, his head in her lap and his eyes haunted. She stroked his hair gently and sang to him. He stared ahead as though he could not hear anything but Kúlin's desperate cry.

Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf...

Thráin took up a battle axe and hurled himself against the walls, roaring with old, old outrage and fear. A flicker of madness danced in his eyes, and his open mouth did not form the shape of a roar, but of a scream. Thrór wept soundlessly into his beard. Hrera clasped his head tightly to hers, her eyes also wet as she murmured to him in a voice too soft to hear.

Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf...

"We found Durin's Axe," said one in hollow, empty tones. "We found _Durin's Axe_."

He did not need to name its price.

Too many, too many in rapid succession. Thorin squeezed his eyes shut and begged Mahal to watch over them. His children were lost in darkness too deep even for Dwarves, and they could not get out.

Balin's kindly face was creased in sorrow and guilt, and when he heard Thorin's voice he crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "My fault," he gasped, his sightless eyes filled with guilt. "Thorin, laddie, how can I go on? It is my fault, I led them to that place! How can I go on?"

"As I did," Thorin said low, and pulled him to his feet. Balin's fingers clutched at him, trembling and clawlike. "As I did. We go on because there is no other choice."

"There was a choice!" Balin cried, and Thorin held his old advisor close and wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he dared. Balin wept and wept until his voice cracked.

"My fault," he croaked.

"You could not know, any more than I did," Thorin said, and Balin's face twisted.

"Don't you _dare_ make excuses for me, Thorin Oakenshield," he rasped, utter self-contempt making his voice harsh and biting. "I thought I could see the beauty of Kheled-zâram and the wonders of the Dale without reckoning upon the Orcs. Five years only - and an arrow in the back! Two hundred years ago I fought in that very place alongside you. I saw what that place cost, and in my arrogance I thought I could escape its toll. Moria, the Black Pit – well did the Elves name it!"

"Shh," Thorin said, and Balin buried his head against Thorin's shoulder and shook violently. "Shh, Balin, gamil bâhûn. Shh. It is done now. You can rest. Let it be – let it go."

"Aye," Balin said bitterly. "Rest. Let it go. Like you have?"

Thorin was silent.

"Thought so," said Balin with savage misery, before he began to weep once more. Fundin met Thorin's eyes and he shook his head in silence, before taking his son's shoulders and leading him away.

Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf. And still they arrived, their eyes wide and white in fear, their words tripping over each other as they shook in terror.

"Mahal, save us," Fíli whispered, and Kíli's quick laughter was absent.

Frár arrived, howling for Lóni. He fell to his knees and was promptly sick before them, and his pleas for Lóni became weaker and weaker as kind, gentle hands led him away.

Náli arrived, his old white head bristling and his face distorted with fury. "The drums!" he roared, blindly attacking any who stood before him. Frerin had his legs, and Thorin and Bifur tried to hold his arms, but the old warrior was given the strength of five in wrath and his panic. Eventually it took eight Dwarrows to subdue him, and only after Thráin had finally knocked him out.

Lóni arrived, and he seemed lost and nearly childlike in his anguish. "Frár," he said, his voice small and hollow. "Frár, we should not have... Frár, Óin took the rest to the West-Gate. Ori is all alone. Ori is all alone..."

_Ori is all alone._

Thorin met Nori's eyes. The thief was nearly bloodless, his sly face drained and white. Without speaking a word, they turned and began to race for the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

"We're coming!" Kíli shouted, and two more pairs of boots began to ring on the stone of Mahal's Halls. They barrelled through the corridors and crashed through doors, pushing others out of the way as the breath slammed into their lungs. The pearl and diamond arch beckoned ahead, with its graceful filigree of mithril runework, and Thorin skidded to a halt before the crystalline waters of Gimlîn-zâram, panting harshly.

"Ori," Nori said, and the others nodded.

"Óin," Fíli said, and Thorin's heart squeezed painfully. _My cousin._

"Aye. To it," he said curtly, and together they let the starlight swallow them and spit them back out into a world of shadows and madness.

The drums pounded so loudly they rattled Thorin's jaw. Movement stirred in the darkness, and the chittering of orcs sounded in the air. He grasped blindly for a hand, and found one fumbling in the dark nearby.

"Fíli, Kíli?" he breathed.

"It's me," said Nori, his voice tight. "I fink the lads are to our right."

"Uncle?" said Fíli, and he sounded as frightened as a Dwarfling. "I can't find Kee."

"I'm over here, but I don't know where _here_ is," Kíli said, and Thorin held on tightly to Nori's hand and reminded himself that he was already dead.

"Come over to my voice," he said, trying to project steadiness and calm. He kept his tone low and commanding. "Come here, my nidoyîth. It's all right. Nothing can harm us, remember?"

A touch at his leg made him jerk, and then he recognised the sigh of relief as Kíli's. "Here," he said, and reached out to cup Kíli's wild head. "Here I am. Nori and I are both here."

Fíli slumped down beside them, and the lad was shaking. "I don't like this," he said.

"No-one does," said Nori shortly. "Come on. We're either near Óin or Ori."

Even their excellent dark-vision was close to useless in the stifling blackness that surrounded them. The clatter and clash of weapons nearby made Thorin's heart pause in its mad rhythm, and he squeezed down on Nori's hand sharply.

"I heard it," he said.

"Look ahead!" shouted Kíli. "I can see light!"

"It's Óin," said Fíli. "Oh, Mahal wept, please _no_ – it's Óin, and he's alone..."

"No, not alone yet," said Thorin, making out the shapes of other Dwarrows in the dark. They were fighting back the orcs, striking in a frenzy at their pale and bulbous eyes. The great ilthildin doors of Khazad-dûm stood partially open before them, and the starless sky shed no light to guide their way.

"Yet," said Fíli grimly.

"They may yet make it out!" said Thorin, desperately hoping it to be so. The orcs shrieked and screeched, and another Dwarf fell, his eyes bulging as blood poured from his mouth. He slumped onto the steps, and then rolled into the water beyond the doors with a splash.

"That was Urgin," said Nori, faint with horror. "He owes me money, the swine."

"Push them back!" Óin roared, his staff flying about his head. In his other hand he held a short stabbing sword which flickered and darted out with the speed of a striking snake. "Push them out!"

The drums shook the floor beneath them, and Óin dispatched yet another orc. His grey beard was tangled and matted, his curled moustaches clotted with blood from his nose. His armour was rent at the shoulder. A large orc with insect-like features launched itself at him, and he lurched upwards and kicked the foul thing towards and out of the open doors before stabbing it in the face.

"I... I don't think they're trying to get out," said Kíli, and Thorin swallowed.

"No," he said. "They're trying to push the orcs out."

"Can we help them?" Fíli demanded, and Thorin tried to bring moisture to his parched mouth.

"They are in Moria. They are beyond any help I could give."

"Thorin," said Nori suddenly. "There's something in the water!"

With an eruption of vile gases and terrible groaning growls, a vast shape lurched from the pool of brackish water. Sinewy and whiplike tentacles squirmed and writhed towards them, and Kíli let out a shout of horror. The shout became a scream as the tentacles parted to reveal a huge and horrific body, with a ring of yellow teeth yawning for them. Dwarves and orcs alike screamed in terror as the tentacles grasped them and brought them into the air. The creature swallowed a Dwarf whole, before biting the head from an orc and hurling the rest of the corpse to dash to pieces against the cliffs of Khazad-dûm.

Then a tentacle wrapped itself around Óin's leg.

He shouted in alarm and rage, and stabbed through it. The tentacle dropped to the ground and twitched. The gruff, jolly old medic sagged in weariness and leaned heavily on his staff, whole and unharmed. Kíli punched the air and whooped, and Fíli sighed in relief at Thorin's side.

"Thank Durin," he said weakly. "He can't..."

The water exploded. Tentacles came boiling from the murk and gripped Óin's arms. He was lifted high into the air, struggling feebly as tentacle after tentacle wrapped around his body, coiling around his legs and slithering obscenely over his face. Thorin reached out and grabbed his nephews. "Don't watch!" he commanded them, turning their heads to him and clinching them as hard as possible in his arms.

"Thorin!" Fíli sobbed, and Kíli's wails were high and thin.

The old Dwarf's howl became a shriek, followed by a wretched gurgling sound that quickly became the crunch of bone and armour.

Thorin closed his eyes, and tried not to be sick.

He knew they had moved from the West-gate by the sudden lack of orc-sounds and screams. He stood, trembling and nauseous; his eyes still clenched shut and his arms tight as steel bands around his trembling nephews. The drums sounded in the deep, sending tremors through the rock beneath their feet.

"Ori," said Nori, his voice catching in his throat.

Thorin opened his eyes.

Ori sat with a candle, his eyes bruised and hopeless. He was leaning up against a tomb of white stone and scribbling frantically in a large book.

"He's so young," Nori said, and his face was ugly with repressed emotion. "He's so damned young, why the hell did Dori let him do this? Weren't he s'posed to look after him? He promised our Mum he'd look after him!"

"He did," Fíli said, and he reached for the thief, but Nori shook him off. "He did. He's never stopped. But Ori's a hundred and twenty-seven, Nori. He's not a little Dwarfling anymore.."

Nori's hands clenched, and he bit down hard on his lip. "My little brother," he said indistinctly. "Helped me every day for eight months after the battle. Helped me learn to walk again."

"We know," Thorin said softly. "We saw."

Nori snorted loudly, and roughly knuckled tears from his eyes. "Then you saw me shoutin' at him when all he wanted to do was help me. Mahal. He's so _young_."

"Aye." Thorin purposefully did not look at Fíli or Kíli. "He is."

Nori's laugh was a little hysterical as he crouched down before his brother. Ori did not look up, his hand skittering across the page. "S'pose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Y'know he wanted to find someone, one day? Me and Dori never wanted romance - Dori don't get any urges that way and won't hear of it, an' I prefer to take care o' business myself, but Ori..." Nori's face momentarily crumpled, and he ruthlessly schooled it back. "Ori's such a soppy romantic. Loves a love story. I used to tease him about it."

"Nori," said Kíli sadly.

"We can't do anything!" shouted Nori, standing abruptly and whirling on them. "Ori's goin' to die, and he'll die all alone, and..."

"He's not alone," said Fíli in a weak voice. "We're here."

"Fat lot of good it's doing him," spat Nori, and he turned back to his brother with tears in his eyes.

When Fíli opened his mouth to say more, Thorin quickly shook his head. Fíli glanced at him and fell silent. They stood as silent witnesses as Nori wrung his quick-fingered hands, gazing at his little brother as the tears began to roll into his beard.

The door to the chamber flew open with a crash, and two Dwarves came streaking through. "They are coming!" one gasped.

"Quick, get this door closed!" the other barked. _Doom, doom,_ said the drums.

Ori scribbled faster and spoke without lifting his head. "Where're the others?"

"Gone," said the first Dwarf, his breath coming fast and his eyes full of tears of rage. "The Watcher took Óin – oh sweet Mahal, that _sound_. The waters are all the way up to the gate!"

"We cannot get out," Ori said calmly, still writing. "We'll go down fighting. Like Óin."

"He died screaming," said the other Dwarf flatly.

Ori looked up, and there was a wild fire in his eyes. "If I'm going to die in this foul place," he snarled, "I am going to sell my life dearly, you understand? I'm takin' as many of those bastards with me as I can!"

"Yes, Ori," said the first Dwarf, his spine straightening. The other reeled, his head in his hands.

Ori crossed over to him and slapped him, hard. "Understand?" he growled. "We give 'em a taste of Dwarvish iron right up their jacksie!"

He picked up a fallen axe and thrust it to the Dwarf, who took it with nerveless fingers. "All right. So we're about to die," he grated, and sent a glare over to the first to speak. "You, me and Grechar. No getting out of it. But they're gonna know." He nodded to his book, his jaw set and his face grim. "One day. Not soon, nah – but one day. One day, they'll know what happened here. We won't be forgotten."

"We won't be forgotten," repeated Grechar.

The Dwarf with the axe tried to speak around his sobs, and Ori glared at him. "Dróin?"

He licked his lips. "We won't be forgotten."

Thorin dragged Fíli and Kíli close, and watched with heavy heart as the youngest of the Company returned to his book, his hand clenched around a hammer and a fire in his pinched and tired face. Ori bent to his writing, his braids fraying and his woollen scarf askew. He wrote and wrote, his eyes alight with determination. Clever, meek, polite Ori, son of Zhori, youngest of the Brothers Ri.

"You won't be forgotten," he whispered.

Kíli took a long, slow breath and let it out against his brother's hair. "Brave Ori."

"Brave Ori," echoed Fíli.

The doors of the chamber rattled, and the drums pounded out their song of death. Nori wept openly, his hair escaping the elaborate braids.

"You do not have to watch this," Thorin said, and Nori swallowed hard, his face wet and blotched.

Then he turned to the doors, which shuddered. "Yes I do," he said, and lifted his chin.

 _Doom, doom,_ sang the drums, and the doors splintered around the lock. Ori wrote one last line, the words sliding down the page, and then he whirled around with his hammer to crush the ribs of a charging orc. Another went down under Dróin's axe, and then, like sand before a wave, they were gone, swallowed beneath the swarm of orcs.

Thorin reached for Nori as he howled in anguish. With all three in his arms he squeezed his eyes shut. _Doom, doom,_ the drums mocked, and the starlight rose and blinded them and threw them back into the cool tranquillity of the Chamber of Pure and Perfect Sight.

* * *

Nori would not let go of his brother for anything in the world. He would barely even allow their mother Zhori to approach. No-one could get past the protective and anguished thief to greet the new arrival to the Halls, and so Thorin welcomed Ori as best he could, fended off Bifur's attempted exuberant welcome with a shake of his head, and turned to grip Óin's hand.

"Hello, cousin," he said quietly, and tried not to picture the terrible sight of this Dwarf wrung out like a rag between foul writhing limbs. The ghastly sound would haunt him forevermore.

"Eh?" Óin peered forward, blinking his useless eyes, a blanket wrapped around him. His hair had returned to the light brownish-red Thorin could only barely recall in his earliest memories. "Thorin! Well I never. Good to see – ha! Well, this is a turn-around isn't it? I cannae see a blessed thing, but I can hear you perfectly!"

"Idmi, my friend and cousin," he said, and the bile rose in his stomach. "It is... it is good to see you too."

"Not precisely what I was expecting," he said, and sighed heavily. "What a lot of fools we were."

"Perhaps you can convince Balin," Thorin said. Óin shook his head sadly.

"Doubt it. He was their Lord, Thorin. You know what that means."

"Yes." Thorin had more knowledge than most of what it meant to take on all that guilt. "Yes, I do."

Óin sighed again, and anger briefly passed over his face. "It could have been so beautiful, so glorious," he said in a soft, longing tone. Then his shoulders slumped and his head dropped to his chest. "Bunch of deaf, overconfident fools. Dáin tried to warn us, and we did not listen."

"You had hope," murmured Thorin, and Óin squinted towards his voice.

"Oh, aye? Well, we're good at that – hope in the face of hopelessness!" He nudged Thorin, a faint sad smile creasing his face. "Eh?"

Thorin forced a smile. The horrors he had seen were not so easily dismissed, and he envied Óin's joy at reuniting with those all around him. It would have been a balm.

Gróin and Haban steadied their son as he wobbled on his unsteady legs. Haban turned his face to hers and carefully tucked an escaping wisp of hair back into his curled and braided beard. Gróin huffed under his breath and pulled Óin into a tight hug - and Óin choked. At that noise Thorin pressed a hand to his mouth. It sounded too much like -

He turned and strode from the sepulchre as swiftly as he could, making his way straight for the Chamber of Sansûkhul to dive back through the glittering waters. Erebor. He needed life, and Erebor, and Gimli.

At one hundred and fifteen, Gimli no longer laughed as readily as he once had, and his quips had become less light-hearted and gruffer than before. Now and then Thorin caught him staring into the middle distance, his brow furrowed as though wondering where his uncle, cousin and friends were. He wrote diligently every four months, and stubbornly refused to consider why they never wrote back.

Thorin grieved to see his merry laughter so diminished. Gimli was as bright and fierce and joyous as his namesake. Gimli should be merry. Gimli should always laugh.

Still, one thing was guaranteed to make him smile. Nearly eight months ago in the summer of 2993, a small curly-haired creature had been born to Bofur and Gimrís. He was a beaming, chuckling little chap with bright brown eyes, Bofur's nose and chin, dark red hair and the Durin brow. They had named him Gimizh, or 'wild one', and Gimli utterly adored him.

Wee Thorin was not so enamoured, and scowled at his younger cousin ferociously every time he laid eyes on him. Dwalin was beginning to regret the name he had chosen. The comparisons were inevitable.

Thorin was rather proud. His scowl had passed to a worthy successor.

Gimli took hold of the tiny, chubby hands in his axe-worn ones and made them clap together. "Now, Gimizhîth," he told the baby, and Gimizh looked up at him with toothless delight, "shall we sing a song, you and I?"

"Pull his beard, my son!" called Gimrís from the next room. "You'll get a better tune out of him!"

"Your mother is a terrible, terrible Dwarrowdam," Gimli said solemnly, clapping Gimizh's pudgy hands together. The baby made an indistinct noise of excitement at the sound of Gimli's voice, and tried to co-ordinate his hands himself, and failed. "Ah, ah, no. I think that might be a wee bit ambitious at this stage. Let's stick wi' me doing the hard work, what do you say?"

"You are truly ridiculous with that child," Thorin told him, shaking his head in amusement and folding his arms. The knot of nausea and horror in his belly was gradually beginning to unravel.

"Ach, well, I'm his uncle, I'm allowed," Gimli muttered under his breath, and then he gave his little nephew a besotted smile. "How could anyone not be charmed by this little gem? They'd truly have to be made o' stone."

Thorin chuckled, and conceded that the baby was possibly a very dear and sweet baby, but Fíli had been far more charming. The horrible sound of Óin's death was beginning to take its proper place in his memories, and he relaxed slightly as he regained his equilibrium.

Gimli could be counted upon for such things.

"Now, shall we see about that song?" Gimli said, poking the chubby belly. "Your father would like this one – it's for mining. Perhaps you'll swing a pick or a mattock one day, with such big strong arms as these!"

Gimizh's mouth opened wide and pink around a bubbling chuckle as Gimli tickled under his arm. Then Gimli sang quietly, his voice rumbling, and he clapped the little hands together as he did:

_Bijebruk! Bijebruk!_  
_Sort the iron from the muck!_  
_Pile it in the rattling truck,  
_ _And take it to the fire._

_Âdhhyîr! Âdhhyîr!_  
_Can't wait til I'm out of here!_  
_Sipping on a frosty beer,  
_ _Is all that I desire!_

[ _[Gimli's Ered Luin Mining Song, performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66843603922/second-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this-comes-from)_ ]

"That is _not_ suitable, brother mine," Gimrís said from the doorway, and Gimli rolled his eyes.

"He can't understand a word of it yet. He simply likes the rhythm."

"Well, I liked it," Bofur called cheerfully from the kitchen. "Was it one o' yours, Gimli?"

"Aye, from Ered Luin," he said and allowed Gimizh to crawl over his legs. "Made it up when I was sixty-something, I can't remember now."

"Here," Gimrís said, hiding her twitching lips. "You're going to be used as a climbing post in a second, and I need to get him washed."

"I don't mind," Gimli said, but he reluctantly handed the baby over to his mother.

Gimrís shook her head, settling him on her hip as Gimizh cooed and gnawed messily at his fist. "Between you an' Dad, I don't know who's the bigger sap."

"Dad," said Gimli immediately. "There's more of him than there is of me."

"Gimrís, m'ruby! The water's ready!" Bofur called from the kitchen. "Where's my darlin' little man then?"

"All right, my lad," Gimrís said to her son, hefting him on her hip. "Your least favourite part of the day: bath time."

"She's a cruel woman," said Gimli, clucking in sympathy, "but it has to be done."

"You could take your own advice, troll-face," she said and nudged Gimli in the back with her knee. "Your braids are a disgrace. Did you come here straight after patrol?"

"Well, I killed a warg," he said carelessly, and leaned back against her legs to peer up at Gimizh and pull faces at him. "I had to let him know, didn't I? What with all the terrible lies you're going to tell him, I have to make sure he knows what a mighty warrior his uncle Gimli is."

"What a mighty fathead, you mean," she said dryly. "I hope to Mahal you washed your hands."

"What do you take me for?" Gimli put a hand on his chest in mock-hurt, and then crossed his eyes at Gimizh. The baby squealed and giggled.

"You know how much I enjoy yer loving sibling affection, and normally I'd be cheerin' you both on," said Bofur, poking his head around the doorway, "but the water's gettin' cold."

"Courage, nephew," Gimli said gravely, and Gimrís kicked him before taking her son to his bath. "Cruel woman!"

Bofur appeared again, wiping off his wet hands on a towel. "You stayin' for dinner? Only I think Alrur and Alfur are comin' over..."

Gimli rubbed at the spot on his back where Gimrís had kicked him, and then squinted up at Bofur. "I think I'd rather take Gimizh's place," he said with a snort, and Thorin echoed it.

Bombur's son Alfur had developed a crush on Gimli. It was nothing serious, simply a puppyish wide-eyed fancy and certainly not the mithril-true One love, but it was enough to make Gimli rather red around the collar. He tried to be gentle with the lad and had kindly stated his complete lack of interest. Alfur had nodded sadly and said he understood, and then the boy had mooned and moped after Gimli for the next two months.

Gimrís teased him mercilessly, and Bofur thought it was the funniest thing in Arda. Poor Gimli did a lot of spluttering and tried to remain aloof and distant; however, aloof and distant were not really traits that came easily to him. Thorin felt for the poor Dwarrow, he really did – but it was indeed amusing.

  


_Gimrís and Bofur, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/66069082875/gimris-and-bofur-are-such-an-amazing-couple-in)_

"Don't blame you," Bofur said, grinning. "All those calf-eyed looks, you'd think we were servin' up beef."

"I'll go down to Nori's," Gimli said with a shrug. "Alfur can't get me in there. He's too young."

"Hark at the noble Line o' Durin," Bofur said and curtsied, fluttering his eyelashes. "What a dignified and respectable royal family I joined. Me, a simple miner and toymaker."

"I _told_ you that you were marrying beneath you," Gimli said, and ducked. Right on cue, a sponge shaped like a little axe flew over his head.

"Get out, y' great lummox, before I make you do laundry!" Gimrís snorted, wet baby and towel juggled in her arms. Gimli kissed her cheek before knocking his shoulder against Bofur's.

"And scare off the free childminder? Where's all the financial savvy Dad always drones on about?" he laughed, and bussed the sopping wet baby on the head. "Try not to soak up too many of her lies until I see you next, my akhûnîth."

"Get!" Gimrís said, and flicked the towel after him. Waving, Gimli left the small family and began to make his way from the upper courts to the lower levels, where Nori's tavern still stood.

It had been renamed since Nori's death, but no-one had taken any notice. The place was still 'Nori's', and probably always would be. The notoriety and fame of the Company was not likely to die down in a mere fifty-three years.

Gimli sat at his usual table and signalled the server. "What's on tonight?"

"Mutton stew," said the youngster, and Gimli wrinkled his nose.

"All right," he said grudgingly. "Can I get a plate of that, some bread and a tankard of ale please?"

"At once, Lord Gimli."

Gimli winced. "Just Gimli, lad."

The young fellow smiled sheepishly and rushed off.

Gimli sighed and tapped his heavy fingers on the table-top. Lóni's name, Gimli's, Flói's and Frár's were scratched into the surface, and the floor was marked and scraped by the drag of Nori's metal leg.

"Well," he said to himself, "this is a familiar scene. Names on a table top, and Gimli son of Glóin left alone."

Thorin sat beside him and took in the worried crease between Gimli's straight Durin brows. "Don't look so glum," he said gently. "They're not as far away as you think. Though I'm sure Nori would be flattered that you think of him."

"Wonder what Nori did with that evil-looking knife of his," Gimli mused, tracing patterns over the table-top with the droplets left behind by the last tankard to rest there. Then he snorted at himself. "Maudlin already, and I haven't even tasted a sip of ale! Ach, I need company. Perhaps I should consider Alfur after all!"

Thorin grimaced. "If you do, I wash my hands of you," he warned. "He's a fine boy, but he is a _boy._ You are a grown Dwarf of a hundred and fifteen years old."

"Oh, I cannot even joke with myself nowadays!" growled Gimli in frustration, and Thorin shut his mouth with a snap. "I miss my friends. They laugh and smile."

"You make me smile," Thorin said, and without thinking he reached for Gimli's broad and brawny shoulder. "You have always made me smile, little star."

His hand passed through. Thorin let out a long breath of disappointment, and left Gimli to his meal.

* * *

Dori poured the hot water and swirled the teapot, once, twice. His eyes were distant and unfocused. His movements were mechanical as he took his tray and sat down at his loom.

He picked up the shuttle, before placing it back down and staring at the latticework of threads. Reds and browns with a smattering of white and purple vibrated underneath his breath, and he lifted his thick hand and stroked the wool once, twice.

"That'll be a tapestry," Nori said, and his normally cheeky, sly voice was subdued and sad.

"It's us," Ori said, and pointed out the purple. "See? He's weaving us. That's me, that'll be you, and there's Dori's hair..."

"Ah," Nori said, and his shoulders slumped heavily. "I never did have the patience to see into the weave like you two."

Ori wrung his hands together. "Who's he looking after now?"

"I don't envy 'em," said Nori, and he swallowed audibly. "All the nagging and fussing and inconvenient questions."

Dori touched the reddish brown of the wool, where Nori's hair would be, and took a noisy sip of his tea. Then he picked up his shuttle and it began to clack against the loom. Tears stood in Dori's eyes.

"There has never been a time he has not looked after you," realised Thorin, and though Nori's jaw rippled he said nothing to refute it.

"He's all alone," Ori mourned. "Dori's never been alone. He's always been there – always looked after us."

Dori dropped the shuttle with a clatter. His hands landed on the table and gripped hard as his chin trembled and his eyes watered. The wood under his fingers began to creak.

"Mother Dori," said Nori bitterly. "Our Mum died when I was fifty, you know, and Ori was only ten, no more than a baby. Dori tried to raise us the best he could."

"I think he did a fine job," said Thorin.

Nori raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Yeah? From your mouth to Dwalin's ears, then."

"Dwalin blamed Dori?" Thorin frowned.

"Nah. Dori used to blame himself for my business activities. Said it was all his fault for not doing better by me."

"And then he'd swear black and blue and up and down that I wasn't going to go the same way," Ori said, rubbing at his nose with his sleeve. "Remember? 'Royal by-blows we might be'..."

Nori joined in. "... 'with three fathers and no mother and poor as tinsmiths besides, but we can still have pride in our work and our manners. _That's_ what makes a Dwarf a Dwarf'."

Thorin glanced at Nori sharply. "Royal by-blows?"

"King Óin I, and the concubine Ymrís," said Ori succinctly.

Recalling his lessons, Thorin winced. "Ah."

"Dori didn't like to bring it up outside the three of us," said Nori, watching his brother hunch over his powerful hands, the wood of his table splintering as he struggled to contain his tears. "He din't want people to whisper 'bout us for yet another reason. Bad enough that none of our dads ever stuck around."

"His looks brought enough attention," said Ori, and he sniffed. "Can you imagine how bad it would have been if they'd known we were descended from Ymrís? How they would have _treated_ him?"

"Thank Mahal for that punch of his," said Nori. "Here, remember when that old fool wouldn't take no for an answer? He said they'd take you away, that Dori wasn't able to care for you unless he found a partner. I bet that slimy git's still eatin' through a straw."

"Mother Dori," whispered Ori, and he swiped at his nose again. "He was the only mum or dad I ever knew."

"Wish he hadn't been so obsessed with what people thought," Nori sighed, and Ori glared at him through reddened eyes.

"Half of that was _you,_ Nori. You, and your horrible friends, and Dwalin rapping on our door every couple of days..."

Nori looked away. "Yeah, I know."

"He doesn't even know I'm dead," Ori moaned, and then Nori swore loudly under his breath and tugged his youngest brother into a rough clinch. Then the thief looked up at Thorin, his lips white and two spots of colour on his cheeks.

"Please," Nori begged, and Thorin put a hand on his shoulder and nodded wordlessly.

"Tell him," said Ori, and his fingers clutched at Nori's jerkin. "Tell him we love him. We're waiting. We love him. We're all right, and he's... he's..."

"Tell him he's a fussy old mother-hen, and that Ori's not wearing his scarf and that I'm making plenty of trouble," said Nori, and he laughed a raspy, painful-sounding laugh. "That should make him happy."

"Dori likes to feel needed," said Ori softly.

Thorin looked over at the beautiful Dwarf. His silvery hair was escaping his elaborate braids, and he had broken the table, snapping it in two. "Everyone does," he murmured.

The teapot had shattered all over the floor.

  


  
  


Older Dori, wearing his brothers' mourning marks, by [ Aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/115640441823/so-weve-been-talking-about-the-official-character)

  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._  
> 
> Âdhhyîr – to gather (dig for) Dwarf-iron  
> Bijebruk - Pick  
> Idmi – welcome  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Gimizhîth – Little wild one  
> gamil bâhûn – old friend  
> Nidoyîth - young boys  
> Akhûnîth – young man  
> Gimli – star  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Kheled-zâram - Mirrormere.  
> Azanulbizar - Dimrill Dale.  
> Gimlîn-zâram - Star-pool
> 
> Balin, Náli, Frár, Óin, Flói and Lóni are the names of the Dwarves who died in Moria, recorded in the Book of Mazarbul in the handwriting of Ori son of Zhori. This book was eventually found by Gandalf the Grey and the Fellowship of the Ring, and handed to Gimli the Dwarf, who brought it back to Erebor.
> 
> In 'The Hobbit' Movie Companion, it is suggested that the Ri Brothers are related to the Line of Durin on 'the wrong side of the sheets'.
> 
>  
> 
> _I love you guys. You make writing this such a joy. Thank you all so, so much. XD_


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG U GUYS! Jeza made another one! She has drawn our Dwarrowdam for today - the silent and professional warrior [Orla](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/55148344871/this-is-determamfidds-orla-shes-a-serious-and). _You need to shower it with praise because Jeza is lovely and mega-mega-talented!!!_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Orla daughter of Ara_
> 
>  
> 
> A Dwarrowdam from the Blacklock clans, Orla is a consummate warrior. She left her homeland in the far east and travelled to Erebor after it was reclaimed. The only Blacklock in the Mountain, Orla endured several years of suspicion. As the name suggests, Orla has a great shock of black hair which she keeps in a tail-like topknot. She shaves the sides of her head to keep it out of her eyes, and crops her beard close and oils it into tight curls. Black-skinned and dark-eyed, Orla is extremely severe and stern, and her face shows absolutely no evidence that she has ever smiled at all. To the surprise of all, she married Dwalin son of Fundin in 2980 TA. They have three children: Thorin, Balin and Frerin.

Frodo grew like a weed. He was a curious young fellow, and as cheerful and adventurous as a Hobbit could be. Thorin rather approved of his loyal friend Samwise, but the Took and the Brandybuck were far too reminiscent of Fíli and Kíli in their rambunctious thirties. He could barely look at them without wanting to scold them.

Bilbo grew older, but barely showed it at all. He became a little reclusive as the years turned, and took to writing in his study more and more often. Thorin read over his shoulder. It never occurred to him that he shouldn't.

"Here now, my beard has never been that long!" he protested at one point, and Bilbo tsked.

"It's called artistic licence," he muttered to himself, but he crossed out the line anyway.

  


  
  
  


Thorin and Bilbo, by [ Yetyoucomfortme](http://yetyoucomfortme.tumblr.com/post/113644098491/x-bilbo-grew-older-but-barely-showed-it-at-all)

  


Time stretched and stretched, and Bilbo lived on and on and on. He prepared for his eleventy-first (as he called it) birthday party with the greatest of glee, chuckling and muttering to himself day and night and rubbing his hands in anticipation. Bofur sent a whole cartload of toys from his shop to hand out as birthday-presents for the little ones. Thorin had never quite understood the Hobbit practice of _giving_ gifts upon one's nameday – but each to their own.

The surprise was carried off in fine style, and he stayed to enjoy some of the confusion. Hobbits were so prim and easily shocked, and their astonishment was rather entertaining. Eventually, Thorin arrived at the door of Bag End just as Bilbo was leaving. He watched with a small smile as his Hobbit picked up a favourite walking-stick and began to make his way down Bagshot Row, singing as he went.

"Safe travels, my Burglar," he murmured, and turned to enter Bag End just one last time. This Hobbit-Hole was where it had all began and he would say his farewells for old times' sake.

His eye was caught by the ring, sitting innocently on the stoop. He bent to study it. Bilbo's little gold ring? Why had he left it behind?

"Well, Thorin Oakenshield?"

Thorin whipped around in shock. Gandalf was still standing by the fireplace, looking absurdly huge amongst all of Bilbo's things. "You... you can see me?"

"Of course I can see you," Gandalf said. "You're standing right there, aren't you?"

Thorin took a step forward, his eyes wide. "No-one has seen me. No-one has ever seen me! Not in sixty years!"

"You certainly haven't been coming to chat with me or Radagast then, my dear boy," Gandalf said, casually stealing some of Bilbo's fine pipe-weed and packing his pipe. "How many times must I remind other folk that I am a Wizard!"

"I cannot believe this," Thorin said, stunned. "Do you always see us?"

"I don't spend a great deal of time in one place, as a rule, and so I never stay long in lands where a Dwarf's spirit might linger," Gandalf said, stretching out his legs and lighting his pipe. He blew a smoke ring. "And no, not always, to answer your question. It is a matter of perception, and such things require concentration. Sometimes I may look at a Dwarf and know that he or she is no longer in the world of the living. I don't always know them, of course. Certainly not as well as I knew you."

"Sometimes I wonder if either of us knew me at all," Thorin said darkly, and sat down on a chair. "I cannot believe it. Wizards can see me."

"All of us who were once servants of the greater powers still have some of our gifts," Gandalf said, raising a bushy eyebrow. "And not all of us are friendly."

"I was not aware _you_ were," Thorin snapped back, and Gandalf chuckled.

"Oh yes, Master Oakenshield. Compared to others, I am indeed friendly. Or at least I try to be a friend."

"I suggest you require more practice," Thorin growled.

"Possibly, my dear boy, possibly." Gandalf blew out another smoke ring, and then fixed Thorin with his piercing blue stare. "And is that why you are here, watching Bilbo's little performance? Being a good friend?"

Thorin's teeth clamped together.

Gandalf smiled. "I see. How are things in the Halls?"

"As always, they are beautiful," Thorin said grudgingly, "and unchanging, and _full of the dead._ I long for the colours of Middle-Earth, and spend as much time here as I can spare – which is a great deal, because, once more; _dead_."

"And do you intend to keep watching Bilbo?" Gandalf leaned forward. He seemed very intent on the answer. Thorin hesitated.

"I will always watch Bilbo," he said eventually. "I owe him a great debt, one that can never be repaid. I will care for him and keep him safe."

"Thorin, my dear fellow, as you have taken great pains to point out, you are dead! What on earth can you possibly do?"

His chin lifted sharply. "Mahal gave me a gift. My life was marred by shadow, my death unjust. I do not know how many others have been given this power, but I was blessed thusly. The living may on occasion hear me. Not clearly, and not always. But their subconscious can hear my words."

"Well, well," Gandalf said, his eyes narrowing and his mouth gnawing thoughtfully on his pipe-stem. "I wonder why Lord Aulë did such a thing... he can read the signs, and he knows his pupil..." the Wizard stared into the flames and began to mutter and mumble under his breath as he thought.

Thorin waited for the old Wizard to finish. When he did not, he left in disgust. Maybe he could catch up with Bilbo before he got too far.

* * *

Dís ran down the corridor. Thorin met his father's eyes, and together they raced after her. He could hear Frerin, Frís and Thrór following closely behind.

She flung back the doors to the audience chamber as she entered, her heavy skirts sweeping back behind her and her grey hair flying. "Dáin!" she called, and the King turned to her. "Dáin!"

"Dís, what is..." he began, but she shook her head curtly.

"There is a stranger at the Gates."

He paused. "Not one of the Bizarûnh?"

She made a harsh sound in the back of her throat. "He bears a message."

Dáin frowned, and then he seemed to recognise the fear that danced in Dís' eyes. "A message from _where?"_

She swallowed, her chest heaving. "Mordor."

Thráin gasped and staggered. Thorin's hand shot out, and together he and Frerin steadied their father.

Dáin's face, withered and old but still full of strength, paled dramatically. "Mordor!" he repeated in amazement and dread. "But Mordor is no Kingdom! Darkness gathers upon the plain of Gorgoroth, true, but the Lord of that land fell three thousand bloody years ago!"

"And still he says Mordor." The Lady Dís, First Advisor to the King, lifted her head. Her mouth was taut and her face pinched, but still she stood tall and proud. "Could it be true? Could the evil that once lived there live again?"

With a long, shuddering breath, Dáin met her eyes fully. "I have had reports from the lands of the South," was all he said, and Dís let out a guttural cry of horror.

"Eru save us, Mahal protect us," she breathed. Her crystalline voice was shattered in fear.

"I must meet with him." Dáin braced himself and closed his eyes tightly for a second, before drawing his old body up. "What sort of message?"

"He will only speak to the King," she said, and her hands fisted themselves over and over again at her sides. "He wears black and rides a black horse. He is as tall as Men, and he speaks with a male voice, though he hisses like a snake. That is all I know."

Thráin began to tremble. "Cousin, don't go down to him," he begged. "The deceits of the Enemy – you cannot begin to know their terror! They broke me, Dáin – he lied, and he broke me!"

"Shhh, 'adad," Thorin said, and smoothed a hand down Thráin's forearm. "Mother, Grandfather..." Frís and Thrór nodded bleakly.

"We'll look after him," Frís said quietly, and she took her husband's hand. "Come here, Thráin love. It cannot return. The madness can never touch you again."

Thrór shivered and then sent a quick look at Thorin. "I'll collect your Company."

Thorin nodded, and then he looked back at Frerin. "Get the lads."

Frerin nodded.

Glancing back to Dís and Dáin, Thorin set his jaw. "I'll stay here?"

"Aye," Thrór said, and laid a comforting arm around Thráin's shoulder. "We meet in my forge. Bring us all the news you can."

"Get him out of here," Thorin told them, before returning his attention to Dáin and Dís. Around him, his family disappeared, fading into the background as the Pool of Gimlîn-zâram reclaimed them.

"...down to him," Dáin was saying, his eyes cold and angry. "I would not be so foolish."

"Neither can you refuse him," Dís said harshly. "The servants of Mordor do not take no for an answer!"

"Stall him," Thorin said, and both his sister and cousin paused momentarily. "Stall him! Buy Erebor some more time. We must send for help!"

"Well, first we should see what he wants," Dáin said, and he picked up the crown and placed it on his wild white head. As it touched his hair, Dáin seemed to bow under its weight before standing taller again. "I will speak from the south battlements."

Thorin's heart sank. Would he never escape those awful, cursed battlements? There he had spied a dragon, and there he had lifted his hand against his Hobbit. Now he would watch his cousin face down a messenger of the Enemy of all free peoples.

Glóin already stood upon the ramparts, his eyes unforgiving and his armour gleaming. Dwalin stood behind him, and his face was grim and stony. The Prince Thorin Stonehelm, a Dwarf with the Durin profile, a thick neck and long loose black hair, nodded once as he saw his father and the First Advisor approach. The wind was harsh upon the southern arm of the Mountain, and Dain's magnificent white beard was tugged by its icy fingers as he made his way to the battlements and peered over. "Messenger," he said curtly. "I am Dáin, second of that name, called Ironfoot, son of Náin and King Under the Mountain. What is your message?"

"King Dáin," said the messenger with a bow. Its voice hissed and rasped, and Thorin shuddered at the sound. "I bring you greetings from Lord Sauron the Great."

"I have no need of greetings," Dáin said.

"Careful," Dís whispered.

"You are wise, Lord," said the messenger in his hissing voice.

"Wise or not, I am _busy,"_ said Dáin curtly. "Say your piece, messenger!"

"My Lord Sauron the Generous wishes for your friendship, O King Under the Mountain!" said the messenger. His horse snorted and rolled its red eyes. "You are a great Lord of Dwarves and have made your Kingdom powerful and secure in but a few scant years. Together we could make an alliance to ensure it survives in peace and prosperity for all time!"

"And what would be the price of such friendship?" Dís spat, and Dáin shook his head sharply. She subsided, but her eyes flashed.

"We do not speak to the Advisors of the King, Lady, but to the King himself," said the messenger. "And to the King we say: this friendship costs you nothing. We would be allies and friends for all time, bringing riches and gain to both our peoples. All my master wishes for is a small token of your good will."

"What token?" Dáin asked warily.

"A mere trifle, my Lord. And in return, Sauron the Lord of Gifts would give you such treasures as to make you the envy of all your forefathers. Rings of Power he shall give, as in days of old."

As Thorin's pulse thudded in his ears and the fury began to rise in his gullet, he was struck by the thought that it was just as well his father had already left.

"Such a trifle must be valuable indeed, to gain such a reward," Dáin said, his tone carefully even. "I ask again, what is this token?"

"We wish for anything you know, O great King, concerning _Hobbits."_

Thorin's blood froze.

Dáin was still as stone, and his wrinkled face expressionless as the messenger continued. "My master would have anything you know concerning them; where they live, what they are, and so forth. For we know that one of these was at one time known to you."

_Bilbo._

"Don't tell them anything!" Thorin cried, and he leapt for Dáin and grabbed for the fur mantle he wore. His hands passed through it, and he threw his head back and roared. "Don't tell him anything about Bilbo! _Don't you dare!"_

Dáin was silent, and Dís' face was troubled.

Thorin panted, shaking with the after-effects of his shock and anger. His hands were trembling. His face felt slack and numb as he sank to his knees on the cold stone battlements.

"It is such a small thing," the messenger said, his voice curling insidiously. "Catch this little thief – for so my master called him – and get from him, willing or no, a little ring, the least of rings, that once he stole. Do this, and three Rings that the Dwarf-sires of old possessed shall be returned to you, and the realm of Moria shall be yours for ever. Tell us news of him only, and you shall have great reward and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well. Do you refuse?"

Dáin remained silent.

"Don't," Thorin managed. "Dáin. Bilbo saved our kingdom. Bilbo gave us our home back – the home you have done nothing but protect! We cannot answer that with such a betrayal! We are honourable Dwarves!"

Dáin shuddered. "I say neither yea or nay," he said hoarsely. "I must have time to decide."

"Consider well, but not too long," said the messenger. "I shall return three times for your answer."

"The time of my thought is my own to spend," Dáin retorted.

"For now," whispered the messenger, and he turned his horse and cantered away towards the forest.

Thorin stared at his cousin and sister, his mouth dry and open and his hands loose before him. "Dáin," he started to say, and then clamped his teeth together to stop their chattering.

Dís stepped closer to the King. "What now?" she said in a low voice.

"He'll be back," Dáin said harshly. "And he will repeat his offer."

"He wants Bilbo," said Glóin. "Why would the Eye of Mordor want Bilbo Baggins?"

"A little ring – the least of rings," Thorin mumbled, and his pulse abruptly sputtered to a halt. After the deafening thudding in his ears, the sudden silence was shocking.

"Wantin' isn't gettin'," growled Dwalin. "We're honourable Dwarves. We don't repay those who've helped us with deceit and betrayal. We don't treat our friends that way!"

Thorin's head whipped up, and he looked at his dearest friend with surprise and rising hope.

"Moria, what did he mean about Moria," muttered Glóin, and Thorin's breath escaped him in a whoosh. "Balin and Óin have retaken Moria, he cannot..."

"The power that has re-entered Mordor has not changed," said Dáin, turning to them. His eyes were alight with anger and fear. "It still lies and lies! _Lord of Gifts_ he calls himself. Aye, and all of them poisoned! We've never trusted 'em, never will, and their gifts always betrayed us in the past. We won't be so thick again."

"What shall we do?" said the Stonehelm, his arms bunching in readiness.

"You, my lad, are goin' nowhere, so stop thinking it. You're needed as Ambassador to the Dalefolk. They have to be kept abreast of this and you're the Crown Prince, so start actin' like it," Dáin said bluntly. The Stonehelm sagged. "We need help. We need advice."

Advice. The word pricked a memory. _Advice._ "Lord Elrond," said Thorin aloud.

"Lord Elrond," echoed Glóin, and then he tried to look at his own mouth in astonishment.

"An Elf!" scoffed Dwalin, but Dáin met Dís' eyes, and then he raised a hand.

"Wait, that's not a bad idea," he said. "We send some young brave warrior to Lord Elrond, get some advice, and send word to Bilbo Baggins at the same time. He's living there now, isn't he?"

"Aye," said Dwalin. "He left the Shire sixteen years ago. Hate to think how the poor thing's been eating all this time."

"All right," said Dís, and she set her shoulders. "Who do we send? Who can we trust?"

There was a ringing silence.

"Da, you don't suppose I could..."

"Thorin my boy, if you don't stop thinking it, I'll have you doing all the paperwork from now until Durin's Day!" Dáin barked.

"Send Gimli," Thorin said in a whisper. It quickly rose to a roar. "Gimli is the only one I can trust. Send Gimli!"

"Here, what about Gimli?" Dwalin turned to Glóin, who paled.

"Don't you go volunteering another man's son like that! Just because _yours_ is underage..."

Dáin's eyebrows rose. "Wait, Gimli is..."

"A hundred an' thirty-eight, yes, and he's _my_ son!"

"And he's the best axeman in two centuries..."

" _Ahem."_

"...except for Dwalin here."

"Aye, and still _my_ son!"

Dís looked troubled, her hands clenched tightly around the folds of her gown. "Glóin," she said, and reluctance dripped from every syllable. "Glóin, I think it must be him."

Glóin turned on her, his face purpling. "That's _my son!"_

"Who else would you trust with this mission?" said Dwalin simply. "Who else is good enough?"

Glóin hesitated, and then he scowled. "Don't see you volunteering."

"And when war comes back to Erebor? What then? Besides, I'm nearly two hundred and fifty, Glóin," Dwalin said, and lifted his head into the light. The diamond in his glass eye glittered, and every scar stood out upon his tattooed skin and completely bald head. His arms were still hugely muscled, but his beard had turned the colour of a winter's sky. He smiled ruefully. "Was a time you wouldn't have been able to stop me. Now?" He gave a rusty laugh.

Glóin paused, staring desperately at his cousin. "My son," he said weakly, "My star." Dwalin laid a huge and heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Glóin, he's ready. He won't thank you for leavin' him behind, not this time."

"Aye." The leonine white head dropped. Then it snapped back up. "Well, I'll go with him then. At least to Rivendell. This needs a Dwarf-Lord as well as a warrior. My boy's good, but he's no diplomat."

Dáin said gravely, "If you're certain. These are not safe times to be travelling over the Misty Mountains."

"There are _no_ safe times to travel over the Misty Mountains," grunted Dwalin. "Never thought I'd say this, but I wish the damned Wizard were here."

"Glóin?" said Dís. "Cousin? Are you sure? You are not a young Dwarf."

"Bilbo's been my friend for nigh on eighty years," Glóin said indignantly, his beard puffing up. "I have to warn him!" Then he sniffed. "An' I'm twenty years younger than the gaffer over there."

Dwalin growled under his breath.

"Then that's what we do," said Dís with a sigh, and she looked over the ramparts to where the rider was barely visible against the treeline far below, before he was eventually swallowed by the forest.

Thorin sank down in relief, his head in his hands. "Oh, my friends," he breathed. "Oh, Gimli. Oh, _Bilbo_."

Thorin's vow rang in his ears. _I will look after you. I will make my amends._ The pulse hopped and raced in his throat. He could feel the icy fingers of fate stretching out to crush them all.

The Great Enemy, Mahal had said, nearly eighty years ago. The one who made the Seven. Sauron the Great, Gorthaur the Cruel, Annatar, Lord of Gifts, the Abhorred, the Shadow, the Deceiver, the Lord of the Rings.

And he wanted _Bilbo._

* * *

Thorin strode into his grandfather's forge, his eyes hard and burning. The frantic babble died down as he entered, and Balin stepped forward, his kindly face pale as chalk.

"Laddie, is it true?" he said. "Is it the Enemy?"

Thorin looked at him grimly, before nodding his head once. "It is true."

Balin let out a stifled cry of distress, echoed by Kíli, Nori and Bifur. Ori's narrow face went slack in horror, and Frerin bit down hard on his lip.

"Tell us," said Thrór, looking up. "What happened after we... left?"

Thorin did not look at Thráin. "They have turned the messenger away unanswered," he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. "They will send an envoy to Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell, to ask for his wisdom and to warn Bilbo."

"Bilbo!" exclaimed Nori. "What does the Enemy want wif our Hobbit?"

Thorin met Kíli's gaze. His nephew's face was touched with his fear, but his eyes were full of sympathy for his uncle. Thorin took a steadying breath and turned away. "A little ring," he said hoarsely. "The least of rings."

"Bilbo's ring?" Fíli said incredulously. "That little gold thing that turned him invisible?"

"The messenger asked for anything regarding _Hobbits,_ but he chiefly wishes for that ring. He offered three of the Rings of Power in return for it," said Thorin, drawing himself up tall in order not to betray his trembling. Both Thráin and Thrór sucked in a breath.

"Three!" Ori said in awe. "Three of the Seven!"

"One of which he took from my hand," Thráin said, bitterness and rage and misery in every line of his face. "The Ring of Durin III, gifted to him by Celebrimbor himself."

"We do not need his gifts," spat Thrór. "We have seen how he pays his friends! He is ever a betrayer."

"Dáin, what does Dáin say?" Thráin turned to Thorin, his massive hands fisted. "They will tempt him, I know it."

"We don't need a bloody ring o' Power," growled Óin. "We're _Dwarves._ We find our power in the earth, not in some damned fool treacherous bit o' jewellery made by a shadowy snake!"

"You cannot understand!" Thráin roared, standing. "They have their own will!"

"Aye, an' so do we!" Óin stood also.

"Ma mahabhyùr rukhs katakhigeri," Bifur snarled, and the assembled Dwarves all began to talk at the same time, their voices rising in anger.

" _Ikhuzh_!" Thorin thundered. They all began to sink back into their places, though many of their faces were still stained with anger. "You are fighting over nothing!  'Adad, Dáin does not want the Rings. As he once said, Dwarves do not quickly forget an injustice. It is three thousand years since Durin the Fourth discovered Sauron's treachery, and in return we marched with the Last Alliance and crushed the power of Mordor. We do not forgive, and we do not forget. We will not trust the Lord of Gifts again."

Thráin slumped, his eyes sliding shut. Frís and Frerin went to him and took his mighty hands, gripping them tightly.

"What did the messenger say to that?" asked Hrera, her hazel eyes cold.

"Nothing, because Dáin told him nothing," Thorin said. "They stall him. He will return to Erebor three more times."

"Rings," Óin said, pulling at his beard. "And what else? That cannae be all."

"The friendship of Lord Sauron," Thorin spat, and Balin hummed under his breath.

"And if this friendship is refused, and Dáin tells him nothing of our Burglar?"

Thrór pierced him with his gaze. "And then?"

Thorin spread his hands. "He made no direct threat. But the intent was clear. If after the third time he remains unanswered, war will be upon them."

Balin frowned. "Why our Burglar?" he wondered. "Why that little ring?"

"Who _wouldn't_ want a ring that turns you invisible?" Nori shrugged. "Come in very useful, that."

"Why would _Lord Sauron,_ who is definitely not a sneak-thief or petty scoundrel such as yourself, wish for Bilbo's little golden bauble?" Balin said with barely-concealed exasperation.

Nori rolled his eyes. "Let's ask the walking library. Ori?"

Ori nodded and cleared his throat self-consciously. "Well, it's no Ring of Power – it has no stone or markings. The books all say they had stones and runes."

"They did," Thrór said shortly, and laid his hand on Thráin's shoulder. Thráin grunted.

"The black messenger will be back, and soon," Thorin said, and his hands gripped the workbench tightly. "It is a five-month journey to Rivendell from Erebor."

"Who does Dáin send?" asked Thráin in a rasping, halting voice.

Thorin glanced at Óin. "Glóin and Gimli are going, with any that will join them."

Óin sprang to his feet once more. "My brother, and my nephew, to cross the Misty Mountains against the will of Sauron?!" he roared, and Nori and Bifur also leaped up and dragged at the healer's arms, holding him back. "Did _you_ suggest this, Thorin?"

He stood his ground. "I did."

"You...!" Óin's eyes bulged, but Balin nodded thoughtfully.

"Gimli is the best choice." He looked up at Thorin with a shrewd expression. "He's honest, brave and a mighty warrior. He will be the best choice to protect Bilbo."

"Can the Enemy reach Bilbo in Rivendell?" Kíli blurted. Balin shook his head.

"Nay, lad. Lord Elrond keeps the valley safe. Not sure how, but it is protected against all evil. That's been known for centuries."

"Can't believe we're goin' to the _Elves_ for help," grumbled Nori. Bifur huffed in agreement.

"Why Glóin?" Óin said, his expression sullen. "Why my family?"

"Gimli for Bilbo's sake, and Glóin for Erebor's," said Thorin grimly. "He is a better ambassador than any other choice. He is a Dwarf-Lord and a Durin, and he is calmer than the Stonehelm and younger than Dwalin or Dís. Besides, mighty as Gimli is, he is no diplomat."

"Gimli, though?" said Frís, wrinkling her nose. "Little Gimli?"

To their astonishment, both Ori and Nori laughed. "Little!?" Ori choked.

"I think you are in for a surprise, Grandmother," said Fíli in amusement. "Gimli is as broad as Thorin, as strong as Dori, has a beard you could lose a field-mouse in, and can wield a double-headed battle axe with just one hand."

Frís blinked. "I see."

"Gimli will protect Bilbo," Thorin said, and a shiver raced up his spine. "He is the only one I trust with such a task, as I cannot do it myself."

"And he hears you better than any other in the world of the living," said Fíli pointedly.

Thorin nodded. "Yes. He hears me well."

"Will it truly be war, do you think?" said Kíli, his eyes wide. Thorin swallowed through a throat made tight and painful.

"I fear so," he muttered. "War will come to Erebor."

Balin sighed gustily. "Again. Twice in a generation. These are evil times, my friends."

"Is this it, then?" said Frerin, sounding very, very young. Thráin's hand tightened on his.

"Not just Erebor," said Frís, her perceptive eyes on Thorin's face. "Not just Erebor. The Enemy will never be satisfied with one small corner of Arda. This is the war that will cover the lands in darkness. Mordor will rise again."

[ ](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/55839826824/fris-daughter-of-eis-fris-was-the-daughter-of-a)

  


_Frís, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/55839826824/fris-daughter-of-eis-fris-was-the-daughter-of-a)_

Thorin's chest rose and fell as he tried to calm his breathing. Then he said, "the war that began so long ago is now approaching. The war for Middle-Earth."

"Well, good thing we're safe in Aman," remarked Nori, and he was silenced by an elbow from Ori.

"Sauron wants Bilbo," Thorin said, and the words caught in his throat and choked him for a moment. "I cannot allow it to happen. I swore to protect him and all he loves. I cannot fail him."

"Dushel tasatizd bâhûn," muttered Bifur. "Our wee Burglar."

Thrór stood. He crossed to Thorin in silence, his eyes flinty and stern. Thorin was struck by the memory of his mighty grandfather, Thrór son of Dáin, King Under the Mountain, riches dripping from his fingers and beard and the crown set upon his head; stately, wise and magnificent.

With a sudden jolt Thorin realised that he had taken direct control of this council. For all his talk of relinquishing leadership and command, with two Dwarf-Lords and two true Kings before him, he had taken charge as though it were the most natural thing possible.

Thorin lowered his eyes as Thrór neared, and Thrór reached out and lifted Thorin's chin.

"Your father told me," he said softly. "It's this one, isn't it? The one the Rider wants."

Thorin nodded once, and then let his eyes drop again.

" _You mean he knows?"_ he vaguely heard Ori whisper, only to be hushed by Fíli.

Thrór tilted his regal head, considering. Then he pinched Thorin's cropped chin with gentle fingers. "Why, my child?"

"I owe him," Thorin said, his voice low. "I owe Bilbo Baggins everything. I took so much from him, grandfather. I stole his peace and his comfort and his safety and his contentment, and in return he helped me gain my heart's desire and claim my home. And... and I was blind to what we might have been, and he has been alone ever since. I can never repay the debt I owe him."

"But a Hobbit?"

Thorin bristled. "Yes, a Hobbit, a fine, brave, loyal Hobbit! And a Hobbit is no bad thing to be!"

Thrór smiled faintly. "Well, no accounting for taste, grandson. Still, we'll do all we can. We'll not let anyone harm your Halfling or anything that's dear to him. We watch with you."

"We watch with you," said Balin, and stood, his shoulders straightening.

"If you lot think I'm leavin' my nephew under the eye of you miserable rogues, you've got another think comin'!" Óin declared.

Frís stood, her face resolute and her eyes fixed on Thorin. "My son," she said. "We follow your lead. We'll watch and report, and your gift can do the rest."

"I told you," Thráin said gruffly, coming to stand by his wife. "We're here if you need us, boy."

"Well, you're going to need us," Fíli said with a stubborn jerk of his chin, and Kíli nodded rapidly.

"Definitely going to need us," he echoed.

"Ra shândabi!" Bifur slapped his legs and then held up a fist, punching the air.

"Well, I s'pose I wasn't doing anything important," said Ori, and Nori's eyebrow quirked upwards.

"Ori... we're dead."

"That Gimli boy is a fine warrior, but he needs someone to remind him to comb his hair and beard more than once a month," declared Hrera.

Frerin also stood and slung a careless arm around Thorin's shoulders. "All right, big brother," he said. "We're all in."

Thorin looked about him at his friends and family, Dwarf-Lords and Kings and miners and tinkers and thieves, and he felt the old steel enter his soul once again. He had relinquished command, but here it was again in his hand. So be it. He was a warrior and a war-leader, and the greatest war that Arda would see in three thousand years was upon them. He could feel the fire burning behind his eyes for the first time in seventy-six years.

Drawing himself tall, he felt the mantle of Kingship settle around his shoulders as it had never truly done in life.

"Then we begin," he said, and the faces of his people shone before him. "For Erebor, and Bilbo."

A roar answered him. " _For Erebor, and Bilbo_!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma mahabhyùr rukhs katakhigeri – do not teach an orc to stink  
> Ra Shândabi! – And agreed!  
> Dushel tasatizd bâhûn – the blackest (shade/evil) of the black, fast hunts our friend.  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Dushel tasatizd bâhûn – the blackest (shade/evil) of the black, fast hunts our friend.  
>  
> 
> _Some words taken directly from 'The Fellowship of the Ring': from the chapter 'The Council of Elrond'._
> 
> _All my love and thanks go to dearest persianslipper and to the Dwarrow Scholar!_


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Barís daughter of Alrís_
> 
> Born in 2883 TA, Barís is a rather shy, affectionate girl who loves nothing more than to see people happy. She has rather nondescript brown hair and eyes, but a beautiful and beaming smile. She is particularly close to her uncle Bofur and can usually be seen joking or singing nearby whenever he is about. She is best friends with Gimrís, daughter of Mizim, who is only three years her elder. Barís is a champion child-wrangler and babysitter, thanks to being the oldest of twelve. She is particularly fond of ponies and music, and wishes to learn the flute and viol. She can already play the gittern and the shawm, and she shows true talent at the fiddle. Her great gift is, however, her voice. Barís has the finest voice to come out of Erebor in centuries, with a range of three and a half octaves, clear pure tone and superlative flexibility. Later in life she will become known as Barís Crystaltongue.
> 
> .
> 
> * * *

"Bloody _Elves."_

"Shut up, Óin, I can't see!"

"Why would you want to?" Óin folded his arms and settled back, glowering. The Elves around them milled, graceful and serene and remote. "All you can see is more bloody Elves."

Thorin, Balin, Óin, Ori, Nori, Fíli, Kíli and Thráin stood beyond the circle of chairs, listening intently. Seeing Bilbo at this great meeting had made Thorin's heart clench painfully. Bilbo's hair had turned white, and his face was finally showing signs of his very great age. He moved slowly, and spoke but little. Much of the talk came from Gandalf (who was either ignoring the Company or unaware of their presence) and Lord Elrond (the smug, self-satisfied Elven git). Bilbo and Frodo both appeared terribly small amongst this council of free peoples and mighty lords, and Thorin wanted to snarl at each one of the damned Elves (and especially that arrogant Man) who looked at them and turned away with dismissal in their eyes.

Gimli looked very uncomfortable, his face set and glowering. Glóin's expression was grim and calm, even though Thranduil's get sat but a few seats away. They were both in formal attire – their gold clasps adorning their beards and their hair unbound. Thorin absently noted that Gimli, once again, had forgotten to brush his.

First Glóin gave the news of the Mountain. Gandalf hummed in thought and his eyes narrowed under his bushy brows. Thorin waited impatiently, but no-one in the Council had anything useful to say at all.

"Erebor will see war," he sighed to himself.

"It was always going to happen," said Balin heavily. "There is no avoiding it."

"I had hoped that one of these great Lords might give us some hope," Thráin said, eyeing the Elves darkly. "Too much to ask of a bunch of weed-eaters. I should have known better."

"Twice in a generation," muttered Óin. "Evil days indeed."

"Um, excuse me, be quiet please!" hissed Ori. "They're speaking about the old days!"

"What old days?" Fíli craned his neck. "Óin, get down, I can't see a thing!"

"Move then! I'm fine where I am."

"Who's Isildur?" said Kíli, frowning.

"A King of Men, a Númenorean," Ori said scornfully. "Don't you know anything?"

Nori snickered.

"Oh, and you're so smart," Kíli said, sticking out his scruffy chin. "So when'd he live?"

"At the end of the Second Age, and the beginning of the Third, dimwit," Ori snapped. "He was one of the Men who established the Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor."

"Arnor?" Fíli raised an eyebrow. "What's Arnor?"

"I cannot believe you pair," growled Balin. "You have both forgotten everything I taught you!"

"Including how to _be quiet!"_ said Thráin, and at the sight of their grandfather's stern face, both Princes fell silent.

There was much talk of the Rings of Power, and Thorin allowed his mind to wander. He let his gaze drift to Bilbo. The old Hobbit was wrapped in a shawl, and he looked small and doll-like on the oversized Elven chairs.

" _So what is Arnor?"_

" _Shut up!"_

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo," said Elrond, interrupting Thorin's thoughts, and he whipped his head around to stare at the youngster. Bilbo's ring, that innocuous little thing, landed on a plinth with a disproportionately loud sound. He frowned at it, and then at Frodo, who was retaking his seat with a huge sigh of relief.

"So it is true!" the tall Man said, his eyes intent on the ring.

And then Thranduil's spawn murmured, "Sauron's ring - the Ring of Power!" - and Thorin felt his knees buckle.

The Man was still speaking, but Thorin could barely hear him.

It wasn't one of the lesser baubles scattered through the world. This little thing that Bilbo had carried for nigh on sixty years was the Ring of Sauron, the ruling ring, the _One Ring._

Through the high-pitched buzzing in his ears, the thought came that it was no wonder the black messenger wanted Bilbo so.

The other Man, grim and weathered, cloaked in Elvish garb, was revealed as the Heir of someone or other. Thorin could barely muster the effort to care, still stunned and reeling at what his Hobbit had blithely carried and used for so long – to avoid unpleasant visitors, of all things!

He turned again to look at his Hobbit, old and creaking, and knew then what it had done. It had prolonged Bilbo's life. One hundred and twenty-seven was a vast old age for a Hobbit, and yet Bilbo had only begun to show true signs of the passage of time when he left Hobbiton, and the Ring.

The _Ring_.

"Did I hear that correctly?" asked Balin incredulously.

"Isildur's Bane," whispered Ori. "Oh sweet merciful Mahal, grant them strength."

Thráin snarled under his breath, shifting his weight between his feet and his hands clenching and unclenching. His shoulders bunched with barely-restrained violence.

"Destroy it," Thorin breathed. "This foul thing... it has tainted - it must be destroyed!"

"Well, what are we waiting for?" growled Gimli, and he drew his father's double-headed battle axe.

With a savage cry he rushed forward and brought the axe down in a blow that Dwalin would be proud of. Thorin's breath caught as Gimli was thrown backwards and a steely ringing sounded in the air, whispering and coaxing.

"Is he all right?" Óin said anxiously. "Is he all right?"

Gimli pushed himself up onto his elbows and shook his head to clear it. His father's axe was shattered.

"Yeah, the idiot's fine," said Nori. "Can't say the same for Glóin's old axe, though."

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess," said Elrond. Thorin glared at the damned Elf. Not a hair out of place on him, not a glimmer of concern, as though Gimli had not just risked himself to be rid of the thing. "The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade."

The first Man – Boromir – began to explain (with admirable patience, Thorin thought) why this was lunacy. Mordor was no Hobbit walking-party. Thorin listened with half an ear and carefully watched Gimli haul himself to his feet and brush himself off. He seemed to have taken no lasting damage.

Then of course, Thranduil's damned son had to speak up. "Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The ring must be destroyed!"

"Oh, _now_ you wish to help!" Thorin snarled, turning on him. His blood was boiling. Bilbo had carried the One Ring; the One Ring had touched his Hobbit, altered him; he had crept past Elves and spiders and even a dragon with the aid of that foul, evil... His anger sought an outlet. It found one. "Do you intend to hold to your word? Or will you turn away again? You elves with your false promises and your false friendships... you cannot be trusted with this thing!"

"I suppose you think _you're_ the one to do it!" Gimli leapt back onto his feet, his face thunderous. The room erupted, and Balin groaned, his head falling into his hands.

"Well, that's torn it," he muttered. "Thorin, laddie, you might want to think about doing something about that temper of yours. Say, perhaps holding on to it?"

"I will be dead before I see the ring in the hands of an Elf!"

The Elf raised an elegant eyebrow. "Indeed? Then may I offer my assistance, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli's head lowered, and his massive bull-like shoulders bunched in readiness. "Ha! You couldn't fell me if you tried, you skinny twig. You haven't the strength. You could not bear this thing half a mile!"

The Elf squared up to the Dwarf, looking coolly down his nose. "I would do better than a grasping, greedy mole, stone-headed and stone-hearted," he sneered.

"Stone-hearted?" Gimli bristled. "Better that than faithless! Never trust an Elf! They will promise friendship, and then turn upon you! Fair words can hide foul deeds. I know you, Wood-Elf, and all your fickle kind!"

"Oh, this is going swimmingly," muttered Glóin with heavy sarcasm, sinking down into his chair and covering his eyes.

This Elf was not as impassive as Thranduil, and his face grew angry. "A Dwarf would seize this thing and keep it for his own! Gold is your only love, is it not? Avarice is all you know, you little stone-grubber. No doubt it seems natural to you."

"Fine talk from the son of one who stood armed outside our gates, demanding _our_ people's treasures at siege-point - and with no word of apology for my father's imprisonment!" Gimli roared.

"Khathuzh, sakhabizu heden!" Bifur shouted.

"Thorin, I think this might be getting out of hand..." mumbled Ori.

"Treacherous Elf!"

"Greedy Dwarf!"

"Deceitful weed-eaters!"

"Filthy rock-lovers!"

The noise was becoming deafening, and Thorin turned to see Gandalf's eyes lingering on him. The old Wizard looked profoundly disapproving – and afraid. "The Ring," he said gravely, and Thorin somehow heard him over the uproar. "It thrives on such discord. The Enemy delights in our mistrust, Thorin son of Thráin. He loves our pride and our conflict. It only adds to his gain."

Thorin stared at him, and the foul whispering in the air mingled with the din until he could not determine individual sounds from each other.

"I will take it!"

The clear voice rang over the clamour, and Thorin blinked.

"I will take it!"

Frodo was walking forward into the midst of all the bickering Big Folk, his face pale and pinched, but resolute. "I will take the Ring to Mordor!"

All fell quiet, and faces turned to the Hobbit in surprise.

The sudden silence felt like a long exhale, and Thorin glanced back at Gimli. He was standing with his lips parted, and he looked somewhat ashamed of himself.

Thorin grimaced. That was not an auspicious beginning. "I am sorry, azaghîth," he murmured.

Gimli's shoulders relaxed, and he lifted his chin. "That was not my finest moment," he said to himself.

"Nor mine," said Thorin, and smiled ruefully at his star. "Pride was ever my downfall. Learn from me, and do not make it yours."

"Though..." Frodo was saying, and his blue eyes were large and fearful, "I do not know the way..."

"Oh my sweet Maker," said Kíli in a rush, and he grabbed onto Fíli's jacket. "He's so little, isn't he little? So little and brave!"

"He's taller than Bilbo," Fíli pointed out, trying to pry Kíli's fingers off.

"He's littler than me!" Kíli said defensively.

"I give up on you," Fíli sighed, and allowed Kíli to continue to gush and grab at his arm.

Thorin caught sight of Bilbo's face as Gandalf stepped forward and pledged himself to the young Hobbit's protection. He was utterly aghast, thrown back in his chair as though struck. His skin looked greyish and pale, and he was gazing at Frodo in horror.

A rush of realisation swept over Thorin. "Frodo is the son of your heart," he said blankly.

"Frodo-lad," Bilbo managed, and his hands gripped his shawl tightly. "Oh, Frodo-lad, what have I done to you?" His voice rose sharply and plaintively, and his eyes were brimming with fear for the boy. "What have I _done_ to you?"

"Thorin," said Thráin in a low voice. "A word."

His father drew him aside and muttered, "They cannot harm Bilbo here in Rivendell. Elrond's power keeps this land safe. But Frodo is a Baggins, and a Hobbit from the Shire. They will be hunting him the minute he steps foot beyond the valley."

After a moment, Thorin nodded curtly. "This mission is too important."

"You know what we must do, son," Thráin said, and his powerful hands landed on Thorin's head in blessing and reassurance. "Go. Do it."

He took a breath and turned back to his Burglar.

"Bilbo," Thorin said, and knelt before the Hobbit, keeping his eyes on the wrinkled old face. "Bilbo..."

"Oh, please," Bilbo whimpered, and Thorin could not stand it a minute longer.

"We will protect him for you," he promised. "I vowed to look after you, and those you love. I will watch over him. I swear it."

"Please, Ilúvatar, Mahal, Kementári, protect him," Bilbo whispered. "Elbereth Gilthoniel, watch over him – oh, forgive me! Forgive me!"

"I swear it," Thorin vowed, and lifted a finger to ghost over the lines of Bilbo's face.

Then he stood and strode over to Gimli. "Gimli, inùdoy," he said, his voice low and dark and full of determination. "You know what must be done. This is the battle of our Age, and you shall be our Champion. Go. Son of my heart, will you protect the son of his?"

Gimli stood, planting his feet as a Dwarf should. "And my axe!" he said loudly, and he drew his father's walking axe and glared up at the Elf. The Elf, for his part, ignored him with aloof disdain.

The Man of Gondor also chose to stand with them, and Frodo looked achingly small amongst them. And then Hobbits were scurrying out of the bushes to insist on going as well, and Bifur exploded into howls of laughter.

"They can't be serious?" Nori said, his braided eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. "Four Hobbits?"

"Well, we had one, it worked for us," said Óin, shrugging.

"Right, yeah, one was a good number, one was plenty of Hobbit in my opinion. Four's going to mean a lot of pocket-handkerchiefs, is all I'm sayin'."

"I don't think Peregrin Took has used a handkerchief in his life," said Thorin dryly, watching as the youngest of the Hobbits made a fool of himself - again.

"You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring," announced Elrond, and Thorin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A grandiose name for nine walkers. Simply 'the Company of Frodo Baggins' would have sufficed.

This seemed to signify the end of the Council. Many of the great Lords stayed to talk between themselves in quiet voices. Frodo helped Bilbo down from his too-high chair, and Thorin watched them leave with worried eyes. Bilbo seemed nearly transparent with grief and horror, his face even older than before.

Then he heard Gimli's voice rumble, "Master Elf, if I may?"

He turned to see the son of Thranduil look down his nose at Gimli, his face expressionless but his eyes flashing with irritation. "Dwarf. What have you to say?"

Gimli's jaw tensed, but he did not rise to the bait. "I wish to apologise. My words were hasty and ill-chosen. I would not set out together on such a Quest with them still between us."

Thorin felt his mouth open. _Kind, aye. And forgiving,_ his thoughts from long ago whispered.

The Elf looked puzzled – and suspicious. "I see. In which case, I also rescind my words, and offer you my apologies. Your name?"

"Gimli son of Glóin," Gimli said, offering the barest minimum of a bow. Thorin couldn't help but note that he had omitted the customary greeting.

"Legolas Thranduilion," the Elf said, inclining his head only slightly. Thorin glowered at him. That Elf had held him at arrow-point and threatened his life! How dare Gimli offer his apologies to the creature!

"Well met, Elf," said Gimli, ignoring the name.

The Elf's lip curled in distaste. "Obviously not."

Gimli's beard twitched, as though he was also suppressing a sneer. "Well, at least there's room for improvement, aye?"

* * *

Frís found Thorin in his smithy, much later. He had begun work on an iron skillet, and it had been going well. He had cast the initial shape, and though the pig-iron was not as noble a metal as he normally shaped, he found it fluid to work with and it bent to his will easily.

He turned the half-finished work over in his hands. Here the pan, where a Hobbit might cook bacon or tomatoes or eggs or mushrooms or those little flat cakes that Frodo liked so much. Here the handle, where a Hobbit's hands would grip sure and steady and confident. Possibly a wooden handle, to reduce the conductivity of heat. Hobbit hands were nimble but soft. Here a divot in the rim, for pouring, and here a maker's mark: Thorin, son of Thráin. Here around the sides, a wrought pattern of Dwarvish knotwork, each knot surmounted with Hobbitish flowers.

"Are you all right?" she said softly, sitting beside him. He grunted.

She took the skillet and turned it, eyeing his guide-marks and the decorations around the sides. "Oh, Thorin," she sighed.

"Hobbits have a language for their flowers, much as we have ours for gems," he said, and his voice was deep and distant even to himself.

"What are they?" she said.

He paused, and then he took her hand and guided it over one of the flowers. "Berrirose," he said. "And rainflowers."

"What do they mean?"

He smiled and did not answer.

Frís put the pan aside and turned his hand over. There was a burn from the casting process on the heel of his palm, and she made a 'tcch!' sound under her breath.

"I am fine," he said, taking his hand back. "I am well."

"That I don't doubt," she said, and looked up at him. He had gained his father's height, and he towered over her. "I worry. I'm your mother; it's my privilege to do so."

"I'm older than you," he reminded her, and she arched one wheat-blonde eyebrow.

"You are still my son and I know you, my surly little Prince. Talk to me."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Bilbo carried the One Ring. He carried it for sixty years. I have watched over him all this time, and I never..."

Her blue eyes, the same hue and shape as his own, softened. Then she pulled his head down and kissed him on the brow. "You are not responsible, Thorin," she said. "You are not responsible for every bad thing that has happened in this world. The Ring has its own will, and it chose your Hobbit. That he has kept his own heart and his own mind speaks very highly of him."

"He never would have found it if I hadn't..."

"Oh, for Mahal's sake!" she said, frustrated love passing over her face. "Do you know how hard it is to watch you constantly flay yourself for things that are not your fault? You have made mistakes, certainly – but this is not yours to claim. _Gandalf_ was the one who chose Bilbo Baggins, or have you forgotten?"

Thorin's breath paused on an exhale.

"I thought so," she said. "Please, Thorin, stop this. You are a good soul, and a mighty heart. Stop tearing yourself apart with remorse."

"But... 'amad, I..." Thorin didn't know what to say, and his words came out strangled and half-growled. "I don't – never knew that..."

She put her fingers over his mouth, and then let them card into his cropped beard, combing gently. "I saw my son again at that meeting. I saw my brave, valiant, determined boy - the Dwarf who led a forgotten people to safety, rallied a hopeless battle, and stared down two armies with nothing more than the strength of his will. Don't lose yourself again in your guilt, dear one. Don't take on the burdens that are others' to bear. No-one is strong enough for that."

He blinked, and then he let his head fall forward against her shoulder and let out a long, shuddering breath. Her arms wrapped as far as they could around his shoulders, and he stayed there for a long moment, breathing in that scent that spoke of safety, of love and home.

Then he straightened and pressed their brows together. "Well then," he said. "Back to work."

She smiled.

* * *

"Here now, Gimli," Glóin said, his gruff voice cracking. "Here's the tinder box, and here's my old pipe. Hobbits grow the finest pipe-weed in the world, and they're not stingy with it. I would be cruel indeed to deny you the chance to taste it. Ach, look at you boy, your braids are crooked! Did you tie them with your eyes closed? Did you even brush them?"

Gimli stood still and allowed Glóin to unravel one plait, his old gnarled fingers moving in the patterns of a lifetime. "I doubt any will care whether I have brushed my hair or not, Dad," Gimli said.

"Well, _I_ care, and so would your mother," Glóin said fiercely. "You're representing the pride of our people now, son. You should look as a Dwarf-Lord should."

"All these tall folk and Elves, they cannot tell whether I am a Dwarf-Lord or a tinker," Gimli grunted, lifting his chin so that his father could gather more of his thick beard into the braid. "Why I need to wear my clasps and braids for such an ignorant lot..."

"Ignorant they may be, but they are our allies," Glóin said, tugging sharply on the braid he was weaving. "Mahal knows they can't even tell a Broadbeam from a Stiffbeard, but you will comport yourself as befits my son and a Dwarf of Durin's line. Remember, what you do here not only reflects upon you but upon all Dwarves everywhere."

Gimli sighed, and allowed his father to unravel his other braid. "Yes, Dad."

Glóin huffed. "When you say 'yes, Dad' in that tone of voice I half-believe you are a lad of sixty again, and not a Dwarrow more than twice that age."

Gimli reached out and touched the onyx and gold beads caught in the snow-white fall of Glóin's hair. "I feel like a lad of sixty. I am but one Dwarf, Dad, I cannot represent all Dwarves! It is too much to ask, I..."

"Ach, shh. You'll do fine," Glóin said, and he tied off the second braid and stood back. "There. Oh, nidoyuh."

Gimli lifted his head, his newly-done braids sliding over his broad and powerful chest. He remained still, letting his father look his fill. Then Glóin leaned forward and clasped Gimli's face in his hands, and spoke a quiet word. Gimli closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

Watching, Thorin was profoundly shaken. He had heard that word.

He was almost certain he had just heard the true and secret name of Gimli, son of Glóin.

Glóin pressed their heads together for a moment, and then he kissed his son's brow gently. "Remember who you are. Stay as safe as you can. Protect the Ringbearer. Keep an eye on that Elf, and don't run into any bloody trolls or any o' that nonsense!"

"I have letters," Gimli said, reaching into his brigandine and fishing out a bundle of papers. He cleared his throat. "One for Mum, and one for Gimrís and Bofur, and one for Gimizh. That one, the one in blue paper, is for Aunt Dís. There's also a note for Dori, and another for Bombur and Alrís, and the last is for Dwalin, Orla and their lads. I have a letter to be sent to Dáin too, if I..."

Glóin took them, and then he wrapped Gimli in a bear-hug. "I love you, boy," he said, low and fervent. "I am so proud of you. So, so proud of you."

Gimli buried his face in Glóin's beautiful white beard, and clung to his father with all of his enormous strength. "I love you too, 'adad."

"Don't you forget to contact us when you can," Glóin said against Gimli's hair. "Protect that Hobbit with all you have. He's the only hope for all our peoples."

Gimli nodded against Glóin's beard, before forcing himself to let go and stand back. "Well," he said, and then he cleared his throat. "We leave within the hour. I should... I..."

Glóin smiled and nodded. "Go, azaghâl belkul. Go on and help save the world."

Gimli shouldered his pack, gripped his father's walking-axe, slipped the throwing axes and his decorated bearded axe into his leather harness, clapped his helm on his head, took one last, anguished look at his father, and tore himself away.

Glóin stared at the empty, open door for the space of two heartbeats, before sinking down onto the too-high bed.

Thorin hesitated, and then he sat down beside his cousin. The silence left behind in Gimli's wake washed over them.

* * *

"So who's the Man?" asked Óin, scratching at his stomach as he, Ori and Thorin trudged along behind the trailing Hobbits.

"Which one?" said Ori.

"This one. Either one. I wasn't listening really."

"The most important Council in centuries, and you weren't listening?!"

"Too many Elves."

Ori sighed and pursed his lips. "The one with the horn is Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor. The one with the long stride is Aragorn, and he's the Heir of Isildur."

"Oh." Óin squinted up at them. "Poor things, barely a scruff between 'em. The Gondor one shows a bit o' promise, but the Isildur one's as bad as Kíli. How do they tell each other what they do and who they are wi'out a beard to braid?"

Ori shrugged. "P'raps they ask?"

"Sounds a bit dull."

Gimli walked behind Aragorn in silence, his eyes darting around at the unfamiliar trees and his hand on the haft of his axe. The helm Dwalin had given him was on his head, and his heavy boots stumped rhythmically against the crackling leaves underfoot. The Men also walked heavily, and Thorin looked back at where the Hobbits followed, nearly noiseless as they pattered barefoot through the leaves.

The Elf was ranging ahead. His soft shoes made very little noise though he was not as eerily silent as the Hobbits. His eyes were narrowed as he peered through the wood, and on occasion he swung into the branches to gain a higher vantage point.

They slept in the middle of the day and moved throughout the night, relying on daylight to keep the sleepers safe from orcs. Upon the second day they camped in the western lee of a hill to avoid any prying eyes from the East. It was a good thing Gimli had brought his father's flint, as Gandalf disappeared shortly after they had made camp.

"Where's he off to?" asked Pippin, frowning. "A funny time to go sight-seeing!"

"My father said Gandalf comes and goes as he will," Gimli said, and smiled at the little Hobbit as the tinder caught. "Not to worry, Master Peregrin! You have myself and Boromir and Aragorn to protect you."

"And Legolas," added Aragorn, his eyes gleaming with mirth. "Do you forget Legolas, Master Gimli?"

Gimli grunted and did not answer, piling leaves and twigs around his nascent fire.

"Oh, Gimli," Thorin said and rubbed his face with one hand, trying to repress a smile. "I have been influencing you for far too long!"

"Now Mister Frodo, sir," Samwise was saying, handing over a dried strip of meat. "It's not exactly a fry-up, but it'll tide us over until Mister Gimli's got that fire up an' going."

"It's ready when you are, Master Samwise," said Gimli, stepping back to show the neat little firepit with its merry blaze.

"Now, that's a thing!" Sam scratched his head. "I'm no stranger to lightin' fires myself, but that took no time at all! Why, it felt as though I'd barely blinked!"

"Fire has ever been a good servant to Dwarves," Gimli said, and tugged off his heavy gloves to warm his hands by his fire.

"Here, Mister Frodo, get yourself a bit closer. That wind is not playing around!" Sam said, and then turned to where Merry and Pippin were digging through his discarded pack. "And you two, get out o' there! I don't want to have to explain to Strider why we ran out o' food not two days out of Rivendell!"

Merry looked somewhat ashamed, but Pippin looked completely unconcerned. "Well, _I_ won't be bothered," he said cheerfully. " _I'll_ have a full stomach, and there's very little that's disagreeable about that!"

Gimli chuckled. "My father once told me that there were seven meals a day for Hobbits. Is it true?"

Pippin's eyes lit up and he sat down opposite Gimli, sticking his thumbs into his weskit in an important manner. "Now, there are two schools of thought on that," he said, nodding solemnly. "Some, the more enlightened, believe that there should be _upwards_ of seven meals. Why, what if you get peckish between Second Breakfast and Elevensies? What if you wake up in the middle of the night with turkey sandwiches on your mind? What if supper is not really satisfying the first time around, so you want to give it another chance?"

"Enough, enough!" Gimli laughed. "I see how it is. The enlightened amongst Hobbits would advocate eating all through the day and most of the night, if it were at all practical!"

Pippin beamed, pleased to have made the Dwarf laugh. "Absolutely!"

The Elf's head had turned at Gimli's deep, booming laugh, and a tiny crease had formed between his dark brows.

"How many meals do Dwarves have, then? Are they like Men, or are they more sensible about matters?" asked Sam, putting his pan down on the flames.

Gimli leaned back, his eyes twinkling. "I'm sure you'd think us very foolish indeed, Master Gamgee. We normally have only two or three meals a day, though we may easily go without."

"Two or three!" Merry looked aghast. "And Bilbo travelled all that way with – oh, the poor old Hobbit!"

"We didn't starve him," Thorin grumbled, and behind him Óin made a noise of indignant protest.

"How on earth do you keep going on so little!" Pippin said, scooting closer to the fire and staring at Gimli with wide eyes. "I'm sure I'd waste away to simply nothing. Two or three- or nothing!"

"Shameful, is what it is!" Sam declared, waving his spoon about.

Gimli held up his great hands and laughed. "Peace, peace! It is what I need, no more. If you fed me like a Hobbit I'd soon be as round as I am tall!"

"I can't believe you are as strong as you are," said Merry, prodding at Gimli's prodigious arms. "Why, I'd disappear completely!"

"Isn't natural," Sam grumbled, his spoon jabbing at his sizzling pan.

"It's perfectly natural for a _Dwarf,_ which I _am,_ " said Gimli, grinning at the young Hobbits. "I'll keep to what a Dwarf knows and leave all expertise in eating to Hobbits, where it obviously belongs."

"And what does a Dwarf know, then?" Pippin said eagerly and he tipped his head, gazing at Gimli with avid curiosity.

"Pippin, don't be rude!" Merry said, tugging at his cousin's jacket and raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "Sorry, Master Gimli, it's just that we've never met a Dwarf and Pippin here," he dug an elbow into Pippin's side, "has absolutely no sense of the appropriate."

"Oh, and you do, a'course," Sam muttered beneath his breath. Frodo smiled faintly.

"No offense taken, Master Merry," Gimli said, leaning back and lighting his pipe. "I don't mind at all. There's a lot o' lies spread about our folk," and Gimli sent a dark look over at the Elf, "and it's good to get the chance to combat 'em."

The Elf was startled by the sudden attention, and his eyes snapped from the little gathering to the forest once more.

"Well now," Gimli mused, puffing on his pipe. "What a Dwarf knows. What a Dwarf knows."

"Rocks and stones, no doubt," said the Elf dismissively, and Gimli raised an eyebrow.

"Aye, rocks and stones. Do you expect me to be offended?"

The Elf remained silent.

"Rocks and stones are not _dead,_ Master Elf," Gimli continued. "Each has their own song, and we can feel it beneath our feet and under our fingers. Everything yearns. Everything has beauty inside it, and it longs to be let free. The meanest of stones struggles to _become_ , and we cannot help but sense it. Each Dwarf is drawn to a craft, and we find beauty and wisdom in the work of hands and minds. We are taught our history early and the songs and chants of our people. Each clan has their own ancient traditions, you know. We love music well, and dance. My grandmother was a famous axe-dancer. She could keep four spinning at one time! My father's folk, the Longbeards, are more likely to mine gold or iron, but the Stiffbeards love silver best and make many cunning things from it."

"Do you have a craft?" asked Boromir, interested despite himself. "My apologies – but I have never heard one of your secretive race speaking so openly before."

Gimli waved the apology away. "No, I have not found that which makes my hands sing," he said easily. "I'm still in the prime of my years, however – plenty of time yet!"

"How old are you, Master Dwarf?" Aragorn asked.

"Oh, I turned one hundred and thirty-nine a few months ago," said Gimli, blowing a smoke ring.

Aragorn looked taken aback. "And here I thought myself amongst the oldest of our party. It seems that between you and Legolas and Gandalf, I am a mere child."

"I expect we all look like children to those two," Gimli said.

"Bilbo once told me of a language," Frodo said.

Gimli's eyes narrowed. "Aye, there is a language, passed down from our Maker."

"He said he wasn't supposed to know," Frodo said, and he smiled faintly. "You know Bilbo."

"I met him once, when I was but a lad," Gimli said, and snorted. "It doesn't surprise me that he knows of Khuzdul. Aye, that's the name of it. We alone of all speaking peoples did not learn our tongue from the Elves, but from our Great Maker himself. It is sacred, and I will not speak more about it."

"Your maker?" said Merry artlessly. "You mean someone makes Dwarves? Is that a craft?"

Gimli started, and then he laughed long and loud. "Ah! If it is a craft, then the best craftswoman I know is Alrís daughter of Gerís! She has twelve children, a remarkable feat amongst Dwarves."

"Twelve is a commonplace enough number in the Shire," shrugged Pippin. "My mother was a Banks, you know, and she was the third of eight."

"We do not increase quickly," Gimli said, still chuckling. "Ah, me! I must tell Alrís and Bombur when next I see them."

"Bombur's wife," Frodo said, his eyes flickering with recognition. "Bilbo told me about him. He was one of the Company."

"Indeed he was."

"So who made Dwarves? If not lady Dwarves," pressed Merry.

"Dwarrowdams," Gimli corrected, and the three younger Hobbits repeated the new word slowly.

"They were not intended," said Legolas.

Gimli froze. And then he said, carefully, "not by the One who made all else. No. We were created by other hands."

"Dwarves were never meant to be," Legolas said, his Elven eyes flashing. "They mar the song of Arda with their discordant notes."

  
  
Legolas, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/156065657385/revamped-my-mepoc-legolas-design-feat-some)  


Thorin growled, and Óin's hands clenched. "No," Ori said softly. "Don't influence him. They must be a Fellowship, and that can't happen if Gimli loses his temper every two seconds."

"Gimli can lose his temper without any help from me," Thorin retorted, glaring at the Elf.

"We are an ancient race, made by Mahal in the days before the Elves awoke," said Gimli stiffly. "He longed for companionship, and so he made creatures other than himself and taught them to speak. The One who made all else discovered us, and told Mahal that his creatures were not wanted. And so we are not wanted, not understood, forever apart from the other races of the world."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Now, that's cruel, plain cruel," he muttered.

"T'is the way of things," Gimli said, and tapped the embers from his pipe on his heavy boot. "We will be granted a place in the music at the end of all things, for so we were promised. But until then, we are not wanted and we know it." He looked up at the Elf defiantly. "There are some who delight in reminding us. Still, what are we to do about it? Cease to exist? No. All things yearn to become. Even the meanest of stones strives, and Dwarves know it better than any."

"Does it ever make you angry?" asked Frodo quietly.

Gimli nodded his bright head. "Aye, sometimes. But what use is anger? We were made strong to endure. And so we do."

The Elf looked troubled for a moment. Then he stood and said, "I will scout this area."

"Do that," grunted Gimli, and he rolled himself into his blankets. In two to three seconds he was snoring.

"He didn't wait for supper," Sam complained.

"That was well said," murmured Ori.

"He spoke of Mahal," said Óin, shaking his head. "Shouldn't have done that."

"The little Hobbits were curious," said Thorin. "He seems fond of them. Their curiosity does no harm."

"That damned Elf is going to be trouble," Óin predicted. Thorin sighed.

"I fear you are all too correct," he said, glaring at the trees where the Elf had disappeared.

* * *

Before the stars released him, he stopped in on Bilbo. The old Hobbit was seated in a huge chair, far too large for him, and his feet swung above the floor. He had a blanket over his knees, and his head was nodding on his chest.

"Hullo my dear," Thorin said softly, and crouched down before him. "They are well on their way. The Hobbits grow fond of Gimli, and the Men are strong and valiant. Your son is safe."

Bilbo's head nodded lower, and a faint expression of grief flickered over his face.

"You look so tired, my idùzhib," he said with as much tenderness as he could muster. Thorin was not good at expressing his care, and the words did not come easily. But for Bilbo he would try. "You should make your way to bed. I have them. I will not fail you."

He lifted his hand and carefully rested it above Bilbo's. Only a breath of air was between the warm, living, wrinkled flesh of the Hobbit and Thorin's cold ghostly palm, forever caught in the vigour of his prime. His hand was so much broader and stronger than Bilbo's, and closing his eyes he imagined that he could feel the thin and papery skin, the soft buttery texture.

"So old, my Bilbo," he said, and looked up into the Hobbit's drowsing face. "I never thought to wonder why you lived on and on and on. I only thought to curse the fate that kept you from me for so long."

He lifted his other hand and allowed it to drift through the wispy white spiderweb of Bilbo's hair. "I am glad you grew old," he said in a low voice. "Whatever the reason, I am glad one of us did. Still, I find I hate that you grew old without me. Would you laugh at my grey beard, I wonder? Would we barricade ourselves against each winter, wrapping ourselves in your quilts and complaining about our bones? Would we grow more alike as time passed; my mannerisms becoming yours, your words becoming mine?"

Bilbo's lips moved, and Thorin sighed soundlessly. "Fruitless to wonder. Still. How I wish, Master Burglar. How I wish."

Bilbo mumbled under his breath for a moment, and then the sounds became words.

_I sit beside the fire and think_  
_Of all that I have seen,_  
_Of meadow-flowers and butterflies_  
_In summers that have been._

_I sit beside the fire and think_  
_Of people long ago,_  
_And people who will see a world_  
_That I shall never know._

_I sit beside the fire and think_  
_Of words I never said,_  
_Of promises and wishes made_  
_All locked up in my head._

_I sit beside the fire and think_  
_I hear him now and then._  
_But still I wait to hear that knock_  
_Upon my door again._

  
  
Bilbo and Thorin in Rivendell, by [bambz-art](http://bambz-art.tumblr.com/post/158052490690/bagginshield-i-sit-beside-the-fire-sans%C3%BBkh)  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rainflower - I love you back, I must atone for my sins, I will never forget you  
> Berrirose - Choose your destiny, I won't give up my promise, I'll love you forever
> 
> Idùzhib - diamond  
> Khathuzh, sakhabizu heden – Elf, look to your barrels!  
> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Nidoy – boy  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad-mother  
> azaghâl belkul – mighty warrior  
> inùdoy - son
> 
> Isildur - Isildur, his brother Anarion and his father Elendil were all Númenoreans who remained friendly with the Elves and were therefore called 'the Faithful'. These people fled Númenor with a seedling of the White Tree before it was swallowed by the sea for the arrogance, corruption and pride of its rulers (misled and lied to by Sauron). Once back in Middle Earth, Elendil became High King of Gondor and Arnor - Gondor in the south, Arnor in the north. Isildur and Anarion governed Gondor for their father, while he ruled the north kingdom. Isildur created a city - Minas Ithil (now Minas Morgul) and Anarion built another, Minas Anor (now Minas Tirith). They kept in touch using Palantír they had brought from Númenor.  
> Minas Ithil was captured by Sauron's forces in 3429 (Second Age), and then the Last Alliance was formed.
> 
> Arnor - the vast kingdom of the north that was established by Elendil fell apart in the early centuries of the Third Age due to civil wars. The roads remained, and some folk histories (the Hobbits recall that their Thain swore alliegance to the High King in the North), but little of that great kingdom survives apart from ruins such as watchtowers.
> 
> Kementári - Yavanna, Vala of the Olvar (plants and trees)
> 
> Elbereth Gilthoniel - Varda, Vala of the stars. Particularly beloved of the Elves.
> 
> Mahal and Eru (the One), and the creation of the Dwarves - this story is told in full in the Silmarillion.
> 
> The first two stanzas of the poem are Tolkien's, the last two are mine. Some text taken from the Movie script and some from the book.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Thank you so very much! :D I am a bit overwhelmed by the response to this! You all make me indescribably happy._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Does anyone have a Dwarrowdam they'd like to see featured? We have Gimrís, Mizim, Haban (Gimli's Firebeard grandmother, mother of Glóin and Óin), Hrera (Thorin's disapproving grandmother), Alrís, Zhori, Queen Thira (Dáin's wife)... and, of course, Dís. I have no idea who to put up there next!
> 
>  
> 
> __


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Hrera daughter of Frera_
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  _Hrera daughter of Frera, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/61558469627/hrera-daughter-of-frera-thorins-grandma-of)_
> 
> _A _painfully_ upper-class Dwarrowdam from the Broadbeam ruling family, the Line of Telphor. Hrera is a silversmith known for her small and detailed work. She was wed to Thrór, King under the Mountain, in a match arranged by her father and the Council of Erebor. She moved to Erebor when she was barely eighty, and yet it didn't frighten her in the least. Prim, proper and careful with appearances, Hrera enjoyed ceremony and tradition. She was never afraid to speak her mind, and thoroughly disapproved of "all this Longbeard stoicism". In fact, she thoroughly disapproved of practically _everything_ \- except her grandchildren. She had dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and a rather fanciful beard with diamond beads plaited into it like water-droplets hanging from a branch. She had one child, Thráin. Hrera was killed when Smaug attacked Erebor in 2770 TA._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _The amazing Jeza-red has drawn[Frís](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/55839826824/fris-daughter-of-eis-fris-was-the-daughter-of-a), and sweet merciful crap she IS Thorin's mum. Everyone needs to go and gape at Frís' regal gorgeousness and then gape at Jeza's awesomeness. Okay? Okay._   
> 

"Is this what you meant? The secrets long hidden?"

The voice of Thorin's Maker was heavy and soft, less of an oppressive weight than before. "Aye, my child. They come to light now."

Thorin touched the side of the giant anvil, at least twice his height. Once, Durin had awoken on that anvil, new-made and wide-eyed, his soul fresh and unused. Perhaps Durin had stood here where Thorin now stood, at the foot of their Maker, also asking _why is this so?_

"One who was close to you," Thorin remembered the words from long ago. "One who betrayed you utterly."

"My student," said Mahal, sorrow hanging in the air like smoke. "He had another name, once."

"Sauron," Thorin said. "Sauron was your student."

"Yes."

"Did you know that my Bilbo had his Ring?" Thorin's hand tightened on the strange wood of the anvil's foot. "Did you?"

Mahal paused, and then he said, "Yes."

Thorin's heart sputtered in its rhythm and his hands ached for his sword. Then his eyes slid shut and he bowed his head. What could be done? What could his Maker do? The Valar had left Middle-Earth lest they destroy it utterly. By his own vow Mahal was bound.

"You learn patience, my son," Mahal said softly.

"I have had eighty years to learn it," said Thorin, bitterness welling upon his tongue. "I wait and wait to make my amends. I wait and wait for my Hobbit. I wait. Patience has been a lesson taught to me by ungentle hands."

"Your Hobbit," Mahal repeated, and sighed.

Thorin looked up. As always, the face of the great figure was indescribably beautiful, indescribably ancient, and somehow indistinct. He could never remember the exact details of it afterwards. "Did you think I would not find out?" he said in a low, tight voice. "I may not be given to self-reflection, but I was bound to know my heart eventually."

"So you have realised it at last," said Mahal, his hand lowering to lift Thorin's chin and turn it this way and that. The touch was fond, fatherly and a little critical; a craftsman observing a fine piece of workmanship. Thorin steeled himself against his usual shudders. The touch of his Maker was full of such power and love... it was difficult to bear. "I am sorry you could not know it in life, my son."

Thorin stared, and his pulse jumped in his throat. "You knew."

"I made your heart, Thorin." Mahal's hand, huge and hard from work, smoothed over the fall of Thorin's hair. "Though you buried it in obsessions and vengeance and guilt and gold, I know when it beats with love."

Suddenly Thorin needed to lean heavily against his hand upon the great anvil. "You knew."

Mahal smiled, and Thorin could feel it as a blossoming warmth in his belly and chest. "He chose to follow you - to _save_ you - he who has never followed another. Perhaps you should consider that."

Thorin could not help but let out a small gasp at that, his throat tightening like a noose around it and making it sound choked and strangled. "He _chose me._ Me. He could have chosen another, he could have been loved and happy his whole life! Instead he remains faithful to a ghost who cursed him and threw all his loyalty away!"

"Shh," Mahal's voice cut straight through Thorin, and he shuddered. The hand against his head braced him, holding him up. "Shhh, child. You know better than to do this. Shh."

Thorin took a deep breath, and then another. Finally he was able to speak again. "Why?" he asked hoarsely, and perhaps Durin had felt like weeping as well.

"Some things are beyond even my doing, Thorin," said his Maker.

Thorin bowed his head once more.

Mahal's hand nudged his chin up again. "You have made good use of your Gift so far. Stay true to your promise, my son. Even in the blackest hour we may find a star to guide us."

Thorin could feel a faint, unhappy smile tugging at his lips. "A star. Very subtly put."

"Aye." The hand withdrew, and Thorin peered up at the great, rough face with its tender expression. "Stay with him. Your Hobbit is tied to the Ring, and now so is the fate of all of that Company. Our fierce young star has his own part to play in this. He is a Dwarrow all alone, and yet I feel that he is about to step into something that will change the Khazâd forever."

Thorin let out a long, shaking breath, feeling his heartbeat in the bone of his clenched jaw and neck. Then he turned away. He would go to the pool of Gimlîn-zâram and see Bilbo again. He would sing to his Hobbit until he fell asleep. He would do as his mother ordered and not think of his guilt any more.

"Thorin," said Mahal, "one last thing."

He paused, and looked back. The great Vala of Craft and Stone seemed to be, for lack of a better word, embarrassed.

"Please, call off your nephew?"

Thorin smiled. "Some things are beyond my doing." He bowed low, and then he left.

* * *

They were a fortnight out of Rivendell when their fortunes changed.

It began innocently enough. The Man Boromir had taken it upon himself to teach the two youngest Hobbits a thing or two about swordplay. There was less swordplay and more giggling than Thorin felt was strictly necessary.

"Foolishness," he muttered.

"He's just sour because he bet on Pippin," said Nori. "Any twit could see that Merry's the more vicious one."

"Did you seriously just call a Hobbit vicious?" asked Óin incredulously.

"Comparatively vicious," said Nori. "Pippin thinks all of this is great fun, whereas Merry's got more of a clue, y'see?"

"Vicious Hobbits," Óin said, shaking his head. "That'll be the day."

"They're doing well," said Balin, studying their form. "Boromir is a good teacher."

As Pippin kicked the Man's shin and they went down in a pile, Thorin fought a smile. "Perhaps he needs to take a few lessons himself."

"The Shire! For the Shire!" cried Merry and Pippin, clambering over the Man and whooping their triumph.

Boromir cried out in surprise, and then his rarely-heard laughter pealed out over the valley. It was good to hear him laugh; Boromir should not always be stern duty and concern for his people. Thorin identified with his worries far too closely, and he knew the dangers of losing oneself in them.

Then Aragorn stepped in and promptly got himself tripped for his troubles.

Frodo laughed at the ridiculous sight of two Men overpowered by two Hobbits, and Thorin was also relieved to see him in a better frame of mind. He was still pale at times, and occasionally the wound in his shoulder pained him. Thorin had nearly exploded when he had discovered that Frodo was stabbed by a _Morgul Blade._ Not even his nephews would go near him for a day.

The (damned, cursed, _blasted)_ Elf suddenly stood and moved to perch on a tall rock, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind caught his pale gold hair as he seemed to pierce through the miles with his gaze, swift and sure as one of his arrows.

"What do you see?" Gandalf said, coming to full alertness.

"What's that?" asked Sam, frowning. His sausages sizzled away in the pan, ignored for the moment. Thorin turned and squinted. There was a dark shape moving in the sunlight from the East.

"Perhaps a wisp of cloud." Gimli suggested, and he went back to whetting the edge of his axe. Thorin had already told him he was using too much water, but the stubborn lad refused to listen.

"It's moving fast," said Boromir, stilling the Hobbits with his hands, "and against the wind..."

"Crebain, from Dunland!" the Elf cried, and Gandalf stood immediately.

"Hide!" he bellowed.

"Take cover!" said Boromir, ushering the Hobbits under a scrubby bush. Gimli immediately rolled underneath an overhanging ledge of rock, and Aragorn and Frodo threw themselves beneath a small cliff and lay very still.

"How could he _see_ that?" asked Nori as the evil-looking birds swept over the escarpment where only seconds before there had been a party of nine walkers. "They were bleedin' _miles_ away!"

"Elves see well in daylight," said Ori. "Really, really, really well."

Gandalf emerged, his face drawn into lines of anger and determination. "Spies of Saruman. The passage south is being watched."

He turned to the great shining peak of the Redhorn, glinting like blood in the sun. "We must take the pass of Caradhras!"

"Too close to Moria," said Balin, and he looked at Thorin with grim purpose. "Far too close."

"I know," Thorin replied, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched Gimli shoulder his axe and begin to pick up his pace, his face alive with anticipation.

The Elf fell into step at the back of their Fellowship, and Gimli glanced backwards. "That was well-spotted," he said gruffly.

"It is nothing to those who have eyes," said the Elf, waving a hand in dismissal.

Gimli laughed. The Elf turned to him more fully. "Why do you laugh?"

"Try the feat again in full darkness, Master Elf, and we will discover which of our party has eyes," Gimli said, grinning.

* * *

The peaks of Barazinbar, Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr rose high in the icy winds as they passed the borders of Hollin, and Gimli paused to take a breath and gaze upon them.

Balin and Thorin followed his gaze, and behind them Frerin swore softly.

"Why do you stop?" asked Pippin worriedly. "Are you ill?"

"I could do with a breather myself," said Sam, hitching his pack and tugging on Bill's lead. "This land isn't half hilly."

"No, I'm not ill, Master Pippin," Gimli said, patting the youngest Hobbit's shoulder with a fond smile. "Just taking in the view. Those mountains are special to us – to Dwarves, that is. I've only seen them once before, and that was nigh on eighty years ago."

"Eighty years," said Merry, and he shook his head. "All right, since you're handing out the lessons, what's so special about those mountains then?"

Gimli lifted his head, and his deep eyes were distant and longing. "We've worked the image of those mountains into gold and song for generations upon generations. There is Barazinbar, cruel Caradhras, which Men call the Redhorn. Beside him stands Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr, or Silvertine and Cloudyhead. In their arms lies the valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, and underneath them lies mighty Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, called Moria by the Elves, the greatest kingdom of Dwarves there has ever been."

"That," said Balin disapprovingly, "was far too much Khuzdul for the ears of Men or Hobbits, let alone the Elf. What has Glóin been teaching this boy?"

"We make for the Dale," Gandalf told him. "If we take the Redhorn pass, we shall come down the Dimrill Stair into the deep vale of the Dwarves."

"There lie the dark waters of Kheled-zâram," said Gimli wistfully. "There lies Durin's Crown, and there my cousins gave up their lives. My heart trembles that I might look upon it soon!"

Gandalf chuckled. "May you have joy of the sight, my good Dwarf!"

Frodo paused, and then he looked up at Gimli. "Your cousins?"

"Aye," Gimli said, and tucked a wisp of red hair back under his helm. "My cousins. Fundin, who was the father of Balin and Dwalin, and Frerin, who was brother to both Thorin Oakenshield and Dís, Lady of the Mountain."

Frodo's eyes turned to him, full of wonder. "You were cousin to that King?"

"He's heard of you, brother," Frerin whispered. "Perhaps Bilbo has been carrying tales?"

"Only the good ones, we trust," Balin said.

"There were plenty of the bad to choose from," Thorin muttered.

Gimli laughed. "I am related in one way or another to the whole of Bilbo's Company, yes."

"But that would make you a Lord!"

"Ach, I don't do anything with the honour," Gimli said, and began to trudge forward again. "My father is a Lord. I am but a warrior."

Thorin gave Gimli a hard look. "You are far more than just a warrior, nidoyel. You are more than your blade, do not speak of yourself that way!"

"Lords and Kings and Princes everywhere we look, Mister Frodo!" Sam whispered. "I'm beginning to feel a mite small, if you take my meaning."

"Not to worry, Master Hobbit!" Gimli said, and he smiled warmly at the gardener. "I am but Gimli the Dwarf, and that is enough of a title to content me!"

"Pride isn't his weakness, that's for certain," said Balin thoughtfully.

"Gimli? He has pride, and plenty of it," said Frerin.

"Aye, that he does. But it is pride in his people and in his family, not so much in himself. No, there's not a scrap of vanity in the lad," said Balin.

"Thank Mahal," Thorin said, still scowling at him.

"Hurry up!" Aragorn called. "The snows come fast in these woods, and we must press on if we are to make Caradhras before he buries us."

"Cheerful sort, Aragorn," Gimli muttered, and kept walking.

By chance Gimli ended up walking behind the Elf, and he kept his head down as they made their way through the empty lands of Hollin. They had kept their distance from each other since that first camp, to the benefit of all involved, Thorin rather thought.

"Why do you let them pester you with their questions?" the Elf asked. "They chatter constantly. Even the patience of the Elves would be stretched."

"Ah, they're but children," Gimli answered cautiously. "And they remind me of loved ones long lost."

The Elf missed a step, and then he looked back at Gimli. "Now and then I forget that mortal frailty," he said, his voice also careful. "Who were they?"

Gimli lifted his eyes and took a breath. "Do you ask because you wish to know, Master Elf, or do you ask to make polite conversation? Because one is welcome and the other is not. I would not speak of them if I did not have to."

The Elf said something in his liquid tongue, before saying, "it is both. Did you lose a young one?"

Gimli shook his head. "I have no wife or husband waiting for me. Nor children. I have not been so blessed."

"Then friends perhaps?"

"Aye, friends, family," Gimli said, and then he sighed and seemed to relent. "The young Hobbits remind me of my cousins Fíli and Kíli. They were so young and bright, and they were cut down before they had even seen a hundred. Kíli was very like Master Pippin – always curious and cheerful, if not always wise. Merry is more like Fíli, more aware of the responsibilities he faces. I had not thought to think of them here, but there it is."

The Elf was silent for a moment, and then he said, "my apologies, Master Dwarf."

"We never tell Fíli or Kíli," said Thorin. " _Never."_

Frerin looked bereft. "But-"

" _No,_ Frerin. You cannot tease them for reminding Gimli of Hobbits or vice-versa. Or I shall tell them about the incident with the cheese and the bedclothes and the crown and Father's beard."

"Killjoy," Frerin muttered.

"Gimli! Legolas!" Aragorn shouted. "Keep up!"

"I am not made for speeds such as these," Gimli grumbled. "No wonder they call him Strider."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "You do stump along, don't you? What good may you be, then? You do not have speed nor size on your side, Master Dwarf. What can you offer?"

Gimli squinted up at him from underneath his helm. "Now that was not so polite."

"Since we are discarding propriety right and left, I felt it did no harm to ask," Legolas said. "You can hardly dislike me more than you already do."

"Hmph." Gimli kept walking for a few moments of silence while Thorin tried to skin the Elf with his glare. How _dare_ he! Gimli was a fine, loyal, noble Dwarrow and a superb axeman!

Then Gimli took off his glove and held up his hand wordlessly, spreading it before his eyes to show the Elf. He had the great, thick fingers of Glóin and Thráin: broad and powerful. Digging into his belt-pouch he brought out a small golden bead. Then, between thumb and forefinger and with barely any apparent effort, he squeezed it flat.

Tossing it to the Elf, he began to hum an old walking-tune as he stumped along behind the Man of Gondor.

Legolas lifted the disc to his eye, and then he bit down upon it experimentally. His eyes widened, and he looked after Gimli with an astonished expression before following after the Fellowship.

The bead he slipped into his pack.

* * *

"It is a strange fate that we must suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing..."

Thorin stared at the Man, and his heart sank like a stone. "No. No. Not again."

"Such a little thing..."

Knuckling his eyes, Thorin wanted to roar his outrage at the uncaring grey sky, at the Valar, at the fates, at the retreating Fellowship. "He only wishes to save his people!" he snarled. "Why must you test us this way – and why must we always, always _fail!"_

* * *

"I still say Frodo looks like Thorin," said Fíli stubbornly.

"I think you're crazy," said Kíli, tossing his head. "Frodo is _tiny!_ And adorable! No-one could ever call Thorin adorable!"

"Not if they valued their head," Thorin growled at them, and his nephews simply laughed.

"No look, it's his eyes, see?" Fíli said. "They've both got blue eyes."

"So does the Elf, and no-one's suggesting he's anything like Thorin," retorted Kíli.

Thorin snarled wordlessly, and his ridiculous nephews both scurried after the Fellowship, snickering, their feet leaving no mark in the new-fallen snow.

Caradhras was doing his best to repel his unwanted visitors. The snows fell every night, deep and thick, and the Hobbits were sinking up to their hips in places. Each camp, they tried to help each other with their cold-numbed feet – Pippin and Merry, Sam and Frodo. Thorin worried for them, but he would not suggest the obvious option to Gimli for all the mithril in Khazad-dûm.

Unfortunately, that was precisely the issue at hand.

"My cousin is just below us," Gimli muttered. "He would feed and supply us richly, and we would be out of this forsaken snow. Cold I can handle – I am a Dwarf of the North, and the cold is a familiar enemy. It's this constant _being wet_ that will drive me mad!"

"Would you kindly be quiet, Gimli!" Gandalf barked. He met Thorin's eyes and they shared a moment of commiseration. Leadership was hard enough without the continuous griping.

"Gandalf, we could go through the Mines of Moria! Why do we risk this road?" Gimli said, and Thorin sucked in a breath.

"No," he said. "No, Gandalf! You must not risk the Mines. They are not safe!" He prayed that this was one of the occasions when the Wizard could hear him.

It appeared that luck was on his side. Gandalf said, "No, Gimli. The Mines are no place for the Ring. I would not take that path unless there were no other choice."

"But my cousin Balin rules there, with my friends and my uncle Óin!" Gimli cried, and Thorin's heart ached for him. "I have not seen them in long, long years; Lóni, Frár and Flói, gruff old Náli and dear little Ori. They would give us warm welcome, and Balin would feast us and help us, I know it!"

"There's a word I like," said Pippin.

"What, help?" said Legolas.

"Feast," said Pippin with relish.

"I'm pretty fond of 'warm', myself," said Sam.

"We should take the Gap of Rohan, and make the way south to the White City," Boromir said stoutly. "We should not have taken this path."

Boromir required watching. Thorin had calmed himself with a great effort, and had observed the Man closely after that incident with the Ring. Thorin knew the obsession with gold – none better! He had seen a spark of that flame alight in Boromir's eyes, fanned by desperation for his people.

And that feeling, Thorin also knew well. _Too_ well.

"We do not aim for Minas Tirith, but for Mordor," Gandalf said, and he turned to lead them on. Boromir glowered and shouldered his shield, and fear for his people flickered briefly over his face.

The path got even rougher in a shallow dip against the side of the mountain. The snow turned to deep drifts and beneath it there were the dead and slimy remains of grass-roots, treacherous underfoot. The Hobbits did better with their bare feet, but Gimli's heavy hobnails were of little use and the Men fared even worse.

"It's slippery as a fish! If I could only get my feet onto solid rock," Gimli grumbled.

"I wish this lot would go off to Hobbiton!" Sam puffed, swiping snow away from his face. "Folk might welcome it there."

"If I was tucked into my bed watching it snow through my nice, thick windows, I'd like it better as well," Merry said.

Aragorn held up a hand, his hard face intently listening. "Is that the wind?"

Gandalf peered through the swirling flakes, and then bent his head. "Wind or no, we must press on."

It was tiresome going. The Men pushed the snow aside with their long, strong limbs, creating a path for the sodden and shivering Hobbits. Gimli trudged through regardless, his helmet at times barely visible through the bleak expanse of blinding whiteness. Pippin seemed rather fond of the Dwarf, and stayed close – though that could have been for the warmth. It had been remarked upon that compared to Hobbits, Elves and Men, Gimli seemed remarkably warm. "Your fires must have heated your blood, Master Gimli," said Pippin, his teeth chattering as they made a pitiful camp against a cliff.

"Blood or no, this fire will not light," Gimli replied glumly. "The wood is wet."

"Stand back," Gandalf said, and a spark of green and blue flame rose from his staff and the wood hissed and spat and sputtered.

"Well, if any are watching, I have now written _Gandalf is here_ in signs that all can read from here to Rivendell," he said, knocking the snow from his hat and pressing his back against the cliff that was their shelter. "Pass this around. Drink sparingly! We may have need of it again."

"Is it that Elvish cordial?" Gimli said suspiciously. "Hmmph. I'll pass."

"Oooh," said Pippin, and he reached for the bottle with eager little hands.

"Wait, you greedy thing!" scolded Sam. "Mister Frodo's half-frozen, and you've been clinging to that warm Dwarf like a barnacle. Begging your pardon, Mister Gimli."

Gimli was watching the blue-and-green fire with a doubtful look. "No offense taken, Master Gamgee. Little Hobbit, wait your turn. I dare say Aragorn and Boromir have more need of that stuff than you or I."

From where he stood lightly on the surface of the snow, Legolas tilted his head. "You have been near-swallowed by the snow, Master Dwarf. Do you not wish to warm yourself?"

"I'll get by," Gimli said dismissively.

"We'll stop until the dawn," Gandalf told them. "Perhaps by then the snow will have passed on."

But by morning the snow still fell in thick flurries. Gimli slapped his limbs to wake them, and the sharp sounds woke Frodo. "Morning already?" Frodo said, rubbing his face. "I don't feel as though I've slept a wink."

"Aye, and another day of trudging through wet snow to look forward to!" Gimli said, and chuckled. "Adventures aren't all they're cracked up to be after all. Perhaps I should be glad I missed out on the last one."

"Can you imagine Gimli in a barrel?" Kíli said, and he and Fíli erupted into sniggers.

"He'd headbutt his way out of the dungeons," said Fíli.

"And it'd work!" Kíli agreed, laughing.

Thorin stifled his sigh.

"Do you mean Uncle Bilbo's holiday?" Frodo asked as he and Gimli covered the fire-pit and began to pack up the camp. They allowed the others to sleep, though the Elf had gone somewhere to look at the rising sun or something equally frivolous.

"That's right. I begged my father to be allowed to go, but alas, I was only sixty-two. Thorin would not take any under the age of seventy."

"Oh," Frodo said, and he looked puzzled for a moment. "It seems so strange. I mean, sixty is passing middle-age for a Hobbit, and yet it's only young to a Dwarf."

Gimli smiled at him. "Very young. Your uncle met me a few years after the Quest, and no doubt he thought me a very raw and callous youth. Why, I could barely braid my beard properly, and it stuck out in two tufts! Terribly embarrassing. I'm glad none here saw it!"

"That's really important, isn't it?"

Gimli paused in rolling up his bedroll, and then chuckled. "Let's say, for instance, that there were those in our party who could remember you as a little Hobbit lad without a curl on his feet..."

"Say no more!" Frodo laughed.

"I don't like this conversation at all," Kíli said sulkily. Then he glanced over at Thorin with a vaguely martyred expression.

Gandalf's eerily open eyes blinked once or twice. Then he sat up abruptly. "What time is it?"

"Not yet six," Gimli replied.

"And it still snows," Gandalf sighed. "Well, nothing for it. We must press on."

Soon enough their party was moving again, pushing through the clinging snow and struggling up the punishing slopes of Caradhras. The snow began to fall faster and thicker, and soon it was difficult to see the person right in front.

"They'll never last in this!" Kíli yelled over the mournful howling of the wind.

"They must keep on!" Thorin shouted back, and he glared at the Men as they pushed the snow aside with their great limbs. "They must make it to the pass!"

"If Gandalf could use his staff, he could melt a path for you!" Legolas suggested.

"And if Elves could fly, they might fetch the sun to save us," Gandalf growled. "I cannot burn snow!"

"Over that shoulder there!" Boromir called. "Aragorn, do you see it? There – the snow doesn't seem as thick! It's protected by that rock yonder!"

"We make for it, then!" Aragorn called back, and his voice was strained with the effort.

The Elf was watching with a smile on his lips, and Thorin resented his apparent amusement at the plight of Hobbits, Men and Dwarf. The Men were working hard to help the Hobbits through the punishing terrain, and all the damned Princeling could do was smile!

"You seem most suited to this work, Master Mole," he said to Gimli, who was neck-deep in snow and spluttering. "But I say: let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf or over snow – an Elf."

Thorin watched with infuriated amazement as Legolas stepped forward onto the blanket of white, and his feet barely made a depression in the snow at all in their soft hide shoes. He leapt forward nimbly and turned, almost dancing in place.

"Farewell!" he laughed. "I go to find the sun!"

With that he was gone, swift as a bird.

Gimli growled, and Thorin growled with him.

* * *

"Back!" Gandalf roared. An avalanche began at his cry and tumbled down the slopes where Pippin had just been standing. Boromir caught up the half-frozen Hobbit and held him tightly. Pippin's face was a picture of misery.

"This blizzard is not natural!" shouted Boromir, flakes sticking in his eyebrows and eyelashes.

"That voice!" said Legolas. "Do you hear it?"

"I cannae hear nothing but the screaming of the wind," Gimli said, hoarse from the cold. The blizzard battered at the side of the mountain, and indeed the wind seemed to shriek.

"They have to get through," Thorin said, and willed them to keep moving. The snowdrifts were taller than Merry's curly head.

"I don't think they-" began Fíli, but he was interrupted by the Elf.

"There! There is a fell voice in the air!" he exclaimed, and Gandalf's eyes widened.

"It's Saruman!" he roared, and a rumble of thunder made the air quake around them and sent shale and snow tumbling down upon them with an almighty crash. The Wizard immediately stood forward and began to chant, shaking his staff at the distant south.

"What's he doing?" said Sam.

"Trying to stop Saruman, I suppose," Frodo answered, his teeth chattering. "Keep close, Sam. How are your feet?"

"Don't rightly know, Mister Frodo. I lost touch with them some time back, if you take my meaning," Sam said wryly.

Gandalf's chant rose to a carrying bellow, and then he broke off with a gasp as a bolt of lightning smashed into the mountain's peak. Snow came falling in a deluge, and before Thorin's horrified eyes the Fellowship were swallowed by the avalanche.

"Gimli!" he choked before he could stop himself. "Frodo!"

Whiteness and stillness enveloped the slopes of Caradhras.

"No..." said Ori, "they're all right, I know they're all right!"

"Nothing's moving," said Kíli, turning around and around, his eyes searching the ground and his face creased in increasing worry. "They're not moving!"

"Thorin!" barked Fíli. "Call again! Call Gimli!"

"Gimli!" Thorin shouted, and he was echoed by Óin. "Gimli, up here! To me, Gimli son of Glóin, to me! Follow my voice!"

Like strange flowers they came struggling up through the snow. Sam first, then the Men and the Elf. Gimli shook the snow off with the appropriate amount of anger at the treachery of the White Wizard. The Hobbits clambered out stiffly, and Merry was coughing and spluttering. Frodo looked as though he'd had the wind knocked out of him, and Pippin looked as though he might cry.

Thorin sagged against Fíli's shoulder. He had nearly thought...

"They're not out of danger yet," his nephew murmured seriously. "Saruman will try again, and if he doesn't get them then Caradhras has tricks of his own."

Thorin closed his eyes. "There is the Land of the Horse-Lords."

Fíli turned to look at Boromir, who was shaking snow out of his clothes and hair. "Is there?"

Thorin glanced over at the Man, and nodded once. "Indeed."

"We must get off the Mountain! Make for the gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!" shouted Boromir, gathering the two youngest Hobbits close and wrapping his cloak around them as best he could.

"You cannot take the Ring to Minas Tirith," Thorin said, and turned to see Gandalf's eyes, deep and shadowed, watching him intently. "Hear me! That Man fears for his city, but I fear for his heart. I know that hope and that dread, Gandalf. He is falling, and falling fast. You cannot set such a temptation before the eyes of a desperate man." He smiled, though it was humourless. "It would be like walking into Erebor after one hundred and seventy years of exile."

Gandalf's lips tightened, and Thorin thanked Mahal. He had heard.

"The gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard," said Aragorn.

"Oh, I forgot about that," muttered Fíli. "I wish I had a map."

"Do the Halls even _have_ maps?" wondered Ori. "I'd love a map too."

"We know," said Kíli. "But we want to use it, not coo over it."

Ori glared at them.

"We cannot pass over the mountain. Let us go under it!" Gimli said. "Let us go through the Mines of Moria."

Thorin jerked, and his head swung back to Gandalf's.

"I have taken that road once before," he said slowly, and he met Thorin's eyes with a significant look. "It can be done. It is not a pleasant journey. Still, I would not lead you into Moria if there were no hope of coming out again."

"I have also taken that road," said Aragorn in a dark voice, and he would not say more of it.

Thorin held Gandalf's steady blue gaze and tried to keep the plea from his voice. "Is there no other way?"

Gandalf shook his head slightly.

"None, it seems." Fíli jerked his head back towards Ori and Óin. "They're not going to like it."

"I am not all that enamoured of the idea myself," Thorin growled. "Will those damned holes never leave us be?"

"We're Durin's Folk, Thorin," Fíli said gently. "You taught me that yourself. Durin's home will ever draw us like a lodestone."

"Yes, and devour us just as quickly." Thorin turned to Gimli, his fierce and bright star. "Did I stop him from giving his life to that place thirty years ago only to prolong the day of reckoning?"

"That's suitably gloomy," Fíli said. "Have a bit more faith in Gimli than that."

"We cannot stay here!" Boromir cried. "This will be the death of the Hobbits!"

"Let the Ringbearer decide," said Gandalf finally.

Frodo hesitated, his eyes huge in his cold-reddened face. Then he blurted, "we will go through the Mines."

"So be it," said Gandalf.

As they began the arduous task of wading back down the paths they had struggled so hard to scale, Gandalf glanced back at Thorin again. He had the gall to look unaffected, as though he were not leading the Ring and Frodo and Gimli and the brave young Hobbits and the two valiant Men to a blood-soaked charnel house. He allowed all the fury and fear in his heart show on his face, his fists clenching and unclenching. His breath was coming fast and jerky, making his ribs shudder and ache.

"You will not find Balin, nor Ori, nor Óin," he said. "No living Dwarf waits for you in the Mines. You are going to your death!"

Gandalf grunted. "Possibly, my dear Dwarf, possibly. Still, what is death but another path to take? You of all people know that."

Thorin's jaw snapped shut, and he watched as the Fellowship made their laborious way through the blizzard. Then he scowled up at the mountain peak.

"Cruel Caradhras, they named you," he growled. "Aye; cruel above and below."

* * *

The camp that night was miserable. Thorin seethed at its edges, and the Fellowship was far too weary to make much noise or even light a fire. The Hobbits immediately threw themselves into their bedrolls, shivering, and even Pippin had nothing to say as he curled up between Gimli and Merry, shamelessly stealing as much warmth as he could. All that could be seen of Sam was his curly hair. Frodo stared unhappily at the rocks and did not speak.

"Are you sure of this, Gandalf?" Aragorn murmured. "I have also taken that dark road. I would not have agreed to take the Ring through Moria at any price."

"It isn't cost that drives us, Aragorn," Gandalf said back, his old voice low and rusty. "It is necessity, and that is a much harsher mistress than any commerce of the world. Thankfully, you are not the one who agreed to it. This is Frodo's burden, and thus Frodo's choice. We are only here to assist him. If you remember nothing else, remember that."

Aragorn pressed his lips together and turned away. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, capped by the jagged mocking edges of the mountain. "That ill wind still blows from the south."

"Saruman, no doubt," Gandalf said, leaning on his staff. "He seeks to discover whether his efforts have succeeded. Still, I am not without my own skills and have hidden us from him for the moment. He will perhaps think we perished on Caradhras."

"I do not think we are that lucky," muttered Thorin darkly.

Aragorn glowered. "Saruman is not the White Wizard for nothing."

"Indeed," Gandalf said, and a brief flash of pain passed over his face. "Still, Moria has one great benefit. The Doors are invisible when closed, and not even the arts of Saruman may find them."

"A small mercy when all the orcs of the Misty Mountains wait within," Aragorn said. "Do you hold out hope of reaching the Dwarf's kin somewhere in those Mines?"

Thorin's breath escaped him in a rush, suddenly glad that the others had left him earlier to take the last watch alone. "Didn't you hear me before?" he growled. "You infuriating Wizard, you only ever hear what you wish to hear!"

Gandalf was either a consummate actor or he was not concentrating enough to see Thorin at that moment. He wouldn't put either one past the wily old meddler. "I hope it will be proved wrong," he said gravely.

"But you do not think so," Aragorn said.

Gandalf shook his head. "No."

"Óin's spirit stood behind you for half the day, you itinerant grey nuisance!" Thorin threw up his hands in frustration. "You – oh!"

"Can you two keep it down?" Gimli suddenly grunted. "My head is full of your mumbling!"

Thorin cursed and then slapped his hand over his mouth.

Aragorn looked a little startled. "My apologies, Master Gimli."

"No-one's master, laddie," Gimli yawned. "Just Gimli. Hobbitish propriety is contagious, it seems."

Aragorn's lips twitched. "Possibly."

"You surprise me, Gimli," said Gandalf, and he arranged himself with his back to a withered tree. "It is a wonder you can hear anything over that wind. I never knew Dwarves' ears were so keen."

"Aye, well, they aren't," he mumbled. "Working in forges and mines'll do that to you after a while. My uncle is deaf as a post. Still, even a post could hear that racket!"

"I remember your uncle's little difficulty," Gandalf said carefully. "Still, we were speaking rather quietly."

"Well, perhaps it was the howling of the wind," Gimli conceded. Thorin bit down on his tongue. Would he never learn to hold his temper?

"It's certainly howling up a storm," Sam said in a sleepy voice.

"Howling up a storm!" said Pippin from somewhere under his blanket. "Good one, Sam!"

Suddenly Aragorn leapt to his feet. "Howling up a storm! It is howling with wolf-voices: the Wargs have come west of the Mountains!"

Gimli sat upright, and Pippin slumped over behind him with a cross noise of protest. "It is! And my ears too numb to make it out!" he cursed. "Do we run?"

"We stay," Gandalf said. "The Hobbits cannot move again until morning. Still, we should make for the top of this rise. We will be able to defend it more easily. Legolas!"

The Elf appeared out of the shadows, his face carved by moonlight. "Mithrandir! Ngaurhoth!"

"We cannot outrun them. We make for the top of this hill," Gandalf said.

"I have been there already," Legolas said, inclining his head. "There is a small knot of twisted trees, cold and old. They do not remember warmth. Any fire will be seen from miles around."

"Well, that last piece of information was actually useful," Gimli grunted.

Legolas ignored him. "We cannot avoid the hunting packs. We should lure them towards our weapons."

"Where the Warg hunts, the orc also rides," Aragorn said.

"The orc dies just as readily as the wolf," said Boromir.

"Move!" Gandalf barked, and Thorin sighed in relief as they all finally stopped talking and started running for the top of the hill. Gimli was pulling his spinning axe from his holsters as he ran, and one of Fíli's throwing axes was in his other hand.

"Men and Elves and Wizards!" he spat as he charged after the scurrying Hobbits. "You will all talk yourselves to death!"

"Is the moonlight enough, Legolas?" Aragorn said, drawing his sword.

"When the Dwarf lights that fire, I will do better," Legolas said. "I wish the stars were brighter tonight!"

"Hold on, I cannae do everything at once," Gimli growled. He pulled together a tangle of dead branches from the scrubby trees at the top of the hill. In the centre there was a broken circle of boulder-stones, which would serve as a sort of wall. Sam and Merry found some withered leaves that had blown between the stones and with these Gimli soon had their beacon lit. "There! Now what was it you wanted seeing?"

Legolas frowned. "Is this what you meant about full darkness?"

Gimli squinted up at him. "Well, what do you expect of an underground race? We cannot forever bump into each other. For a start, it would make mining even more of a challenge than it already is."

"To the front, Gimli," Gandalf said curtly. "Can you see anything?"

Gimli pushed his helm up a little on his forehead, peering out beyond their circle of boulders. "Nothing from this side. Nor to the north."

"They will come from the east, most likely," Gandalf said.

"Yes, there," Gimli said calmly, hefting his throwing axe. "A great Warg-chieftain, I would say. He has the scent."

"Does he have a rider?" asked Boromir, his face tense.

"No," Gimli said. "He is alone."

Gandalf lifted his staff and strode forward, his head high and his hair ragged and flung behind him. "Listen, Hound of Sauron!" he cried. "Gandalf is here. Fly, if you value your foul skin. I will shrivel you from tail to snout if you come within this ring."

The wolf snarled, a chilling sound full of dreadful promise. The Hobbits shuffled together, clustered close behind the Dwarf, Elf and Men. Then the Warg threw his head back and howled long and high, as though he were summoning the rest of his pack to the fray.

Legolas drew an arrow from his quiver. "Guide me," he said shortly.

"Do you see the copse of dead trees we passed earlier?" Gimli said. "He stands before them."

"Yes, I see him now," Legolas said. "You spoke truly, Master Dwarf. In full darkness you have eyes."

Then he loosed the arrow just as the Warg sprang for the Wizard. With a deep and musical twang, it lodged itself deep into the Warg's throat. There was a horrible sound and the huge dark shape thudded heavily to the ground.

Gandalf stood poised and ready, but no immediate attack followed the Warg-chieftain's call. He began to back towards the ring of stones, his staff held at the ready and Glamdring drawn and glittering. "That was a fine shot," he said. "I hope you have many more."

"I do not miss," Legolas said in a slightly offended tone.

"That sounds like a challenge," Gimli said to himself. "Could be interesting."

Thorin shook his head. "Perhaps this is not the right time?"

"Nay, perhaps not now," Gimli conceded, and sighed. "It'd be a fine thing to see him taken down a peg or two, though!"

" _Without_ the imminent threat of death," Thorin sighed. "Gimli, your priorities are becoming a trifle obscure."

"I like not this new silence," said Boromir. "What do they wait for?"

"Their new leader will call the attack, no doubt," said Gandalf. "I fear we will miss the silence before long."

At that moment, a great howling broke out all around them, wild and fierce and full of savage pleasure. A great host of Wargs had crept up and surrounded their hill, and Gimli gripped his axes tightly. "The fire grows too slowly," Legolas said. "How many?"

"Too many to point out at once," he growled. "Loose an arrow: it will hit a Warg."

"That is not reassuring," said Legolas dryly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want reassuring?" Gimli snapped back. "We're not havin' one of your feasts in the forest now, laddie!"

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Just guide me, Dwarf."

"Not likely, Elf," Gimli retorted. "Let you have all the fun? I think not!"

"Would you two join us at some point this Age?" Gandalf roared, battling with two Wargs at once.

With a great cry of _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu! , _Gimli leapt over the ring of stones to loose Fíli's throwing axe directly into the face of a charging wolf. He then span and sent his short-handled spinning axe across the throat of another, before punching the snapping beast in the eyes with his mailed fist. The huge skull cracked underneath Gimli's knuckles, and then he was whirling once more, the axe spinning in tight figure-eights that the arms of no Elf nor Man could hope to replicate. Gimli stood like a rock, his feet planted firmly on the earth as around him his axe dealt shining silver death. The Elf stared for a moment, and Thorin felt unaccountably smug all of a sudden.

"Gimli son of Glóin is the best axeman in two centuries," he told the haughty creature with quite a sense of satisfaction. "And you, Thranduil's son, had the audacity to ask what use he would be!"

Legolas gathered himself quickly, and the bow of Mirkwood began to sing its deep and musical song once more. To Thorin's displeasure the Elf had not boasted unduly of his own skill. His arrows indeed never missed, but flew straight and true and unerring for eyes, throats and temples. Even the darkness and the slowly-growing flickering of the fire did not affect his uncanny accuracy. His hand flickered back and forth from his quiver with unearthly speed, seeming to blur the air around him. At one point he sent two arrows flying simultaneously to fell two separate Wargs, a feat Thorin had to blink at.

Aragorn was possibly the best swordsman Thorin had ever seen. His style was undoubtedly Elvish, but Thorin recognised a solid Rohirrim move amongst the fluid Elvish motions. Then he began to see others as well: here a double-parry familiar to the Men of the North, there a southern Gondorian gambit. Neither was the Man shy of fighting dirty. To Thorin's great surprise, Aragorn feinted left before drawing a dagger from his boot and sending it slamming into a Warg's head as it turned to follow, before drawing it out and sending it spinning end over end to bury itself in the eye of another. "Novel," he murmured to himself, studying the form and effectiveness of such an eclectic range of styles. "Undeniably successful."

Boromir was a far more formal fighter than Thorin had known. His sword flickered out in the parries and thrusts of the trained swordsman, but he had less of the virtuosic flair of Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn. Rather, he moved in a workmanlike soldierly fashion, each move economical and measured, each stance speaking of hours of drills.

Then Gandalf's voice rose over the din of the fight, booming sonorously. "Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!"

With a mighty snapping roar, the trees around them caught alight. It almost looked as though their withered branches had suddenly grown leaves and blooms of flame. The Wargs snarled and cowered, but Gandalf had drawn himself up and cloaked himself in the cloud of his full power – an old man no longer, but a great and terrible Wizard, powerful and perilous. The sudden light made the hill appear as though it was crowned with fire, and the last arrow of Legolas kindled as it flew directly for the heart of a great black beast with slavering jaws. It pierced and sank into its breast, and as it howled and snarled its death-throes, the rest of the pack fled.

Gandalf watched them go for a moment, before turning to the others. "Is everyone safe?" he said, suddenly a weary, bent old man leaning on his staff.

"Aye, whole and hale," Gimli said. "Wouldn't have minded a bit o' warning about that lightning-flash. I'll be seeing it for days!"

Legolas looked as though he were barely repressing a rejoinder to that. Probably something else about eyes, Thorin thought sourly. _Elves_.

"We move on immediately," Gandalf said, and he lifted his hand into the air. Slowly the flames died down until it was safe for the Hobbits to poke their heads out over the edge of the stone circle.

"That was a bit of a close shave," said Merry. "Let's not make a habit of that sort of thing, what do you say? Bad for the digestion."

"Well now," Sam said. "Didn't I tell you? Wolves weren't ever going to get old Gandalf, that's for sure. Nearly singed the hair off my head!"

"One moment," Gimli said, and he ran over to where one of the Wargs lay feebly twitching. He rolled it over, and then let out a soft 'aha!'

"We have no time for skinning that animal, Gimli!" said Aragorn. "We leave now!"

"Aye and I have no need of its skin," said Gimli. "Just retrieving my property." And he reached down and jerked the throwing axe out of the Warg's skull without a single grunt of effort, before tutting under his breath. "Nicked it. Damned Warg-skulls. Thick as bloody rocks, they are."

"No wonder you show such expertise," murmured Legolas.

Gimli scowled at the Elf without pause for the next two hours. Thorin rated it a fairly good scowl, though Wee Thorin's was still vastly superior.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth! – Fire for saving us! Fire against the Wolf-host!  
> Ngaurhoth - Wolf-host  
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Akhûnîth – young man  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Khazâd - Dwarves  
> Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu! - The axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you! (war-cry)  
> Barazinbar - (Sindarin: Caradhras) the Redhorn.  
> Zirakzigil - (Sindarin: Celebdil) Silvertine  
> Bundushathûr - (Sindarin: Fanuidhol) Cloudyhead  
> Azanulbizar - Dimrill Dale  
> Kheled-zâram - Mirrormere
> 
>    
>  _Thank you so much for all your reviews and kudos, you all make me smile like a bashful goof! :D All my love to persianslipper for the amazingest of prereads, and all my dewy-eyed gratitude to the Dwarrow Scholar._


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Gimrís daughter of Mizim_
> 
>  
> 
> Gimrís is a stubborn and mouthy girl who grows to be a witty and vivacious Dwarrowdam. Her acid wit is most likely to be used against her older brother Gimli. Gimrís does not show her affection easily, and she is generally likely to hide it behind her quips and teasing. She has inherited her mother's famously voluptuous figure, but her hair is a bright and fiery red like her father's and grandmother's. Unbound, it falls to below her knees. She has been known to be rather vain about her looks, and has an automatic habit of grooming her menfolk whilst simultaneously scolding them. Her mother also taught her how to use the throwing knives, and she is very possessive of her set, made by her father and kept in a special glass case upon her wall.
> 
> Gimrís is a journeyman glassblower and a master healer who trained under the direction of her uncle Óin. She married Bofur son of Bomfur, and bore one child: a son, Gimizh. In her old age, her brother handed over the lordship of the Glittering Caves of Helm's Deep (Sindarin: _Aglarond_ , Rohirrim: _Súthburg_ ) to Gimrís and her line.
> 
> See Jeza-red's amazing portrait of Gimrís (with super-gorgeous jewellery) [here](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/54983691616/my-take-on-a-character-of-a-dwarrowlady-that-is)!

The hammer hit the glowing copper with an almighty _clang!_ Thorin wiped off his forehead, and glared at the heavy pot, before hefting the hammer once more. The beaten copper was not bonding smoothly to the bottom surface. When used over a fire, it would not heat uniformly. The food would be unevenly cooked. No Hobbit would accept this.

_A Hobbit chose you._

_Clang!_ The hammer came down again, and Thorin shook the hair and sweat from his eyes. Better. The pot would be an attractive thing when finished – warm copper and cool steel, the trailing forms of ivy around the handles. A trifle too heavy for a Hobbit to lift alone. A Dwarf would need to help. Thorin would certainly be strong enough.

_They make their way to Moria._

_Clang!_ Perhaps the pot could be used for the spiced stews and soups popular all over the Shire. Perhaps it would hold a boiled ham or a silverside cooked with cloves and peppercorns, or maybe that thick sweet porridge that Hobbits liked to drown in cream and honey. Perhaps it could hold, one day, a Dwarvish bread soup, or the traditional Broadbeam dumpling stew his grandmother had always made. Bilbo would be interested in Dwarven cooking.

_The Ring is calling Boromir. It whispers in his ear._

_Clang!_ The hair would not stay out of his eyes, and his sweat was making them sore and stinging. He set the pot at the edge of his forge-fire before tugging off his shirt and wiping his face with it roughly. Then he tied his hair back haphazardly and picked up his hammer once more. The copper would bond, or it would break.

_The Fellowship will bond, or it will break._

_Clang!_ He had given his word to his mother that he would try not to dwell in his guilt. But the habits of eighty years were proving hard to break. He had denied his place as a leader of his people and denied his share of any of the good that had come from his quest, but here he was leading once more. _Clang!_ He would stay true this time. _Clang!_ He would not fail his fierce inùdoy Gimli, or the noble desperate Boromir, or the brave young Frodo. _Clang!_ He would not fail Bilbo. Not this time. _Clang!_ He would do his part for Middle-Earth. _Clang!_ _Clang!_ His Maker had known. _Clang!_ The Ring. The damned, damned Ring. _Clang!_

"Thorin!"

Frerin skidded into the forge, his eyes wide. "It's Erebor, you have to come!"

Thorin laid his hammer down. "What has happened?" he said. His voice felt raw and parched from the heat of the fire, and his jaw ached where he had been clenching it.

"The messenger," Frerin said. No trace of his normal impish humour could be seen on his face. "He's back."

Taking up his shirt, Thorin left the pot where it was. The fires would burn low, and the pot could be reheated. The copper would bond to the steel later. "Who watches with you?" he asked curtly, following his brother through the hallways.

"Fundin, grandfather, and Balin." Frerin had been biting his lip again, and the lower one stood out red and swollen, in sharp contrast to his thin, bloodless upper lip. He looked his age. Sometimes Thorin forgot just how young his brother truly was. Life in the Halls was not true life. No matter how much time passed, Frerin would be forty-eight forever. "Who's on watch over the Fellowship?"

"Nori, Bifur and Kíli," Thorin said as they entered the Chamber. The shadowy figures of Dwarves sitting very still around the starlight-filled pool gave the glorious Chamber of Sansûkhul an eerie, haunted feeling. The cool light flickered over their frozen faces, and their eyes were fixed and glossy as they stared into the water, breathing very slowly.

"Ori should join us," said Thorin after a moment, pulling on his shirt again and swiping a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "He may know something about the records or the precedents that Balin does not."

"I'll get him," Frerin promised. "See you in the waters, brother."

Thorin nodded, before taking his customary seat. The cool, twinkling glow of the pool intensified and as always Thorin was blinded and turned inside out before he awoke, blinking, in the world of the living.

Erebor, the council chambers. Dáin was slumped in a chair, his wild white head dishevelled. His iron foot was, for once, unattached and leaning up against the table. He must be extremely tired to allow such a weakness to be seen, Thorin thought. Dáin looked old. Very old.

At the table was Dís, her hair also messy. Her intricate pattern-shaved beard was mussed, and there were deep circles beneath her eyes. Bombur's sedan chair was in a corner, and the Dwarf in question was rubbing at his forehead worriedly. Though he had put up quite the battle, Bombur's old orc-wound combined with his advancing age had finally relegated him to the chair permanently. His sons Bolrur, Bofrur, Barum and Barur usually helped their poor father around (Bofur was working on a wheeled cart that ran on steam and clockwork), but at that moment they were nowhere to be seen. Next to Bombur was Dwalin, who was speaking in hushed, angry tones to Bofur and Gimrís. The Crown Prince Thorin Stonehelm paced like a caged lion before the fire, tendons standing out upon his thick neck. At the door stood Orla at guard, her dark face impassive and her eyes alert.

"Grandson," Thrór said, turning to Thorin and heaving a long, slow sigh. His face was solemn and hard. "It's not good."

"Frerin said the messenger was back."

"Aye, and he's not happy with their answers so far," said Fundin bleakly.

"What has happened?" Thorin turned back to Dáin. His cousin was tracing slow, pensive circles on his temples with his fingers. "What were their answers?"

"We have no word from Glóin," said Dís into the tense silence. "Nothing from Rivendell as yet."

"No," Dáin grunted. "Nothing as yet."

"The Men of Dale are certainly takin' their time," Bombur said. "Did they hear you, Thorin?"

It was still somewhat disconcerting to hear himself addressed by name, and to have another Dwarrow answer. The Stonehelm snarled and slammed his meaty fist against the wall. "King Brand keeps his silence, so far," he said bitterly. "Bizarûnh, pah! I thought we were beyond the days of mistrust. I thought he was our friend and ally."

"So he might be. So he still is," said Dáin, frowning at his son. "But to join in a dispute between Dwarves and the Dark Lord Sauron is not an easy thing to decide, . Give him time."

"Time? Brand will be dead before he makes up his mind!" the Stonehelm growled.

"...just shoot him!" Gimrís was hissing. "Stick an arrow in his gob! Let's see how well he relays his messages when he's as stuck full of pins as a pincushion!"

"He's a messenger of Sauron," growled Dwalin. "Don't even know if he _can_ die."

"Well, I'm not afraid to try," said Gimrís, tossing her bright head.

"For the sake of our boy an' my poor old heart, my ruby, let's find another way first?" Bofur suggested wearily.

Gimrís folded her arms. "If you ever-so-wise idiots cannot find a way, my knives are coming out of their case."

"That should make young Gimizh happy," muttered Dís.

"The messengers of Mordor have all sorts of foul arts," said Orla in her soft, clipped voice. "No normal blade can harm them."

"So killing him is out of the question," Dáin said, and held up a hand against the protests from both Dís and Gimrís. "No. If war must come, we will need every axe, every throwing knife and sword. I will not waste our strength against an errand-boy."

Gimrís grumbled under her breath, and Bofur kissed the side of her head. "There's my fiery ruby," he said softly. "I know, ghivasha. I know."

  


_Gimrís, by[pixolith](http://pixolith.tumblr.com/post/63755177644/gimris-from-determamfidds-super-awesome-story) _

"Our home," said Gimrís, and gritted her teeth. Her glorious eyes were full of fury.

"Mahal wept, I had hoped I might see my lads and lasses grow up without this... this..." Bombur gripped the handles of his sedan chair. "This damned leg. Can't fight. I can't even walk anymore. What use can I be?"

"Shh, don't you start," Bofur scolded his brother, before clasping his broad head in both hands and pressing his forehead against Bombur's tightly. "Stop that, you great lump, or I'll tell Alrís and then you'll really be in the slagheap."

"We have not even had our Mountain for eighty years," said Dís, her hands wrapped tightly around the back of a chair. "This will be the third war in my lifetime – the second at Erebor's door."

"Aunt Dís," grated Gimrís, and the Princess shook her head.

"The King is right," she said reluctantly. "We cannot answer his threats with his death, even if we were able to deal it to him."

"What did they threaten Erebor with?" Thorin asked, watching his sister swallow convulsively. Her face was twisted. She obviously hated every word she was saying, but the sense in it could not be denied. Dáin's legendary practicality was evidently making an impression upon his court and people.

"War, what else?" said Fundin, gazing at his son with mournful eyes. Anger was flickering over Dwalin's face, but it was warring with reluctance. Wee Thorin was only thirty-seven, Thorin knew. Barely out of the first stages of childhood, though he had his adult height early, as did most Longbeards.

"Openly?" Thorin turned back to Dís. She was breathing a little fast, and her mussed braids were sliding over her face.

"Aye." Fundin gave him a significant look. "No hints. The words were, 'you would find it uncomfortable to make Lord Sauron your enemy, and if you are not our friend what else may we call you? Mordor could topple your mighty mountain in a matter of days. Do not invite the possibility'."

"That's plain enough," Thorin sighed. Dáin was tapping at the table with his fingers, his eyes troubled.

"All right, we're here," said Frerin from behind him. "What's new?"

"Not much," said Fundin.

"The Men do not answer the call," said Thorin, and Ori scuttled out from behind Frerin to stand with them, his eyes wide. "The messenger makes his threat openly now. How many more times will he come?"

"Twice," said Balin crisply. "Twice more, and the last time he'll be bringing an army with him and not a message."

"No doubt," said Fundin.

"Why would the Bizarûnh stall us?" wondered Ori, and he tipped his head in thought. "We have a pact between Dale and the Mountain. It was sealed after the Battle of Five Armies – Bard himself signed it! They cannot betray us now."

Fundin shook his head. "Anyone can betray another. The clouds gather over Erebor, and the Men wonder if they can be spared."

"Well, it's not like Dwarves are unused to standing alone," said Balin, his voice glum.

"It's not like Dwarves are unused to betrayal either," muttered Thorin.

"Have they sent to the Wood?" Ori said, drawing himself up a little taller. "I know – I know what you just said, but it is – they could..."

Thorin met his grandfather's eyes, and Thrór lifted his hands in surrender. "Try," he said, though there was no hope in his tone. "Perhaps this time they will not turn away."

Thorin thought it was useless, but still he sought out the most likely candidate to hear him. "Dwalin," he said, low and level. "Dwalin, gamil bâhûn. What of the Elves?"

Dwalin blinked. Then he took a step forward. "What about the Khathuzh?" he asked gruffly.

"Oh, as though Thranduil will come a-running to help," growled Bofur. "He has no love of Dwarves. He wouldn't care if the Mountain were reduced to rubble. No doubt he'd go fossicking through the ruins to see if there were any shinies he could pick up!"

"Shazara!" Dáin snapped. "Enough of that! How many times must I tell you to leave old bones where they lie and not chew over them again and again? Good point, Dwalin, we will send to the Elvenking. He at least hates Mordor more than he hates Dwarves."

"Only by th' teensiest of margins," said Bombur, his lip curling.

"How do our armies stand?" Dáin said, turning back to Dwalin. He lifted his hand and rocked it side to side.

"We lost a lot o' doughty folk eighty years ago," he said seriously. "We're not full strength. Those we've got are bonny fighters, aye, but we're going to need auxiliaries an' they're goin' to need training."

Orla said, "We've three thousand ready now. Five hundred recruits from the last two years who have not finished training. A hundred and twenty or so of those have only six months under their belts."

"Can we increase our training rotas?" Dáin said.

"I am available for the swordsmanship lessons," said Dís, her chin rising. The unspoken challenge hung in the air – make an issue of my age, she was saying, and we will have a swordsmanship lesson rather sooner than expected.

Orla bowed. "We'd be grateful to have you, Lady," she said in her soft, steely voice. "My axe at your command."

"I'll get my mattock," said Bofur in resignation. "Some o' the mining lads will be up for it, no doubt. If the beer is free."

Bombur sighed.

"My mother and I will have our throwing knives," said Gimrís, and then she held up her hand before Bofur could protest. "I'm in this. I have as much right to protect our home as you, and if you say a word about our son I'll suggest that _you_ be the one to stay with him and worry!"

Bofur gave Dwalin a helpless look, and Dwalin shook his head warningly.

"Bowmen?" asked Dáin (with extremely diplomatic timing, Thorin thought).

Orla grimaced. "Not many. One hundred at the most, the majority of which prefer another weapon. We have a lack of long-range defences other than the Mountain's walls themselves."

"No bowmen?" said Thorin incredulously. "What are you thinking, Dwalin?"

"It's not popular," Dwalin said defensively.

"My lads Alrur and Alfur are pretty good with a bow, and Bomfrís is better than either of 'em," said Bombur.

"Get 'em training the other young'uns. Maybe their prejudices are less stupid," said Dain bluntly. "How about engines?"

"Not much left after the Dragon, to be honest," said the Stonehelm with a heavy exhale. "The battlements have sconces for cauldrons, and I think I've seen a groove from a catapult here and there..."

Thorin grimaced. Those bedamned, thrice-cursed battlements.

"...but there's not much left. I think the metal must have been repurposed. So much was."

"Well, we need 'em now," Dáin said, and he turned to Dís. "Who, do you think?"

She gnawed upon the inside of her cheek for a moment and then she said, "Dori son of Zhori. He's no metalworker, but no-one else can muster as many as he can. He'll have the Smiths and the Miners with us faster than you can blink, and he'll have them organised to military precision what's more."

"That's my brother," remarked Ori to nobody in particular. His chest had risen almost to his chin with pride.

"Lastly," Dáin said, and he rubbed at his temples once more. The crown had left permanent dents in his age-spotted skin. "The infirmary."

"We have twenty-eight healers and two apprentices," said Gimrís. "It won't be enough."

"The Elves again?" suggested Dwalin.

Bofur grumbled something highly inappropriate (and probably anatomically impossible) under his breath.

"If they answer the call, aye," said Dáin. He tipped his head back and his hand hovered over the knee of his truncated leg. "Any more ideas?"

The silence was resounding, but it was at least more hopeful than the awful grimness of before.

Dáin harrumphed. "All right. We do that then. Off you go, I've got to chat to my boy here."

Fundin watched his son bend with a pained grunt to the arm of Bombur's sedan. Bofur, Gimrís and Orla took the other arms, and together they lifted the chair-ridden Dwarf from the council room. Dáin slumped back, his eyes closing in weariness. He did not bid them farewell, and the door closed with a nearly-silent click behind them.

"Cousin," said Dís softly. "Cousin, it is more than we had."

"But is it enough?" Dáin said tiredly, his eyes still closed. "Dís, I took on this Kingship knowing that it wasn't meant to be mine. I took it on knowing that I was not the elder branch of the Line of Durin. By all rights you should be sitting here, and I'd be snug back in my beautiful Iron Hills, drinking my beer and laughing at you."

"You have never dared laugh at me," she said, her marvellous voice dry as dust. "Not even when we were children. And I cannot sit the throne of Kings. I rescinded that honour long ago. It was my brother, not me, who loved his people enough to lead them. I loved my family more."

"Aye, well, I owe your brother a punch in the nose," said Dáin, and he yawned. "Day's getting closer when I'll be able to deliver it."

"You cannot say..." said the Stonehelm, stricken.

"Hush, lad. Yes, your father is old, and he is mortal. I fear this will be my last fight." Dáin's eyes opened, and all the heaviness of his years lay in their deep, dark depths. "I hope to make it a good one. I hope to keep our people safe. But it'll cost us, an' no doubt one of those things will be a King. We can't make it two."

The Stonehelm looked horrified. Thorin couldn't blame him. "Dáin," he began, but Thrór silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

"No," he said gently. "Dáin is realistic. I wish I had been half so prepared. Perhaps then your father would not have embarked on such a suicidal quest, all alone."

Thorin gave his grandfather an aghast look, before turning to Dáin. "Dáin, you have been a great King, better than I could have been," he said, his words tripping over in his haste. "You can strike me as many times as you wish for stranding you with this mess if..."

"Peace, nidoyel," said Thrór. From the corner of his eye, Thorin could see Fundin take Balin by the hand, and together father and son faded from the realm of the living.

"What do you mean to say, Dáin?" said Dís. "I am old as well. We may lose many, but no death is certain."

"Just being organised," said Dáin with a wry smile. "Thorin, my boy, you're a dutiful boy and a good and fair Prince to your people. War or no, I am not going to be around for much longer. I'm old. I'm tired. The world grows darker, and one old Dwarf ain't much of a muchness in the great tally of things. But one old Dwarf was made a King because there was no-one else left. And so in the fullness of time you will be a King, because there is _no-one else left._ Do you understand?"

Thorin Stonehelm swallowed, and watching, Thorin could see his eyes glitter with tears. "I must be strong."

"Aye, strong is good." Dáin smiled. "But can you be weak? Do you know when to bend? Do you know when to find a middle way? I've tried to teach you, my son. You're a fast learner, even if you're a trifle hot-headed at times. Got to be careful of that Durin temper, lad. It tripped me up a few times myself, when I was your age."

"I... I can try." The Stonehelm glanced from Dís to his father several times, before he lowered his head. "I don't know, 'adad. I'm not as wise as you. I'm not a hero, not like the Dwarrow who was my namesake. I've been a negotiator and a warrior and a smith, but I don't know how to be a King."

"No-one does," murmured Thrór. "It's something you learn on the job, nidoy. You'll see."

"A hero?" Thorin said, taken aback. " _What_?"

Frerin and Ori shared a despairing look, and then Frerin groaned and Ori covered his eyes. "You're impossible, nadad," Frerin said. "Impossible!"

"I'm not planning to down tools any time soon, son," said Dáin, and he held out his arm. Thorin Stonehelm hesitated, and then the blocky, burly young Dwarf was stumbling over to his father and grasping his hand tightly in his own. "Ach, not so tight! No, I have a little left in me before I go and pop old Oakenshield in his noble nose. But there it is, and you must know it before anyone else."

The Stonehelm's breath hitched, and then he brought Dáin's hoary old hand up to his face, where he pressed it against his bristly cheek and kissed the palm. "Now, none of that," Dáin said, his raspy voice impossibly gentle. Then he looked up at Dís. "You too, my cousin. More like a sister, you've been."

Dís bowed her head. "King Dáin Ironfoot," she said, and her lips turned up in a faint, sad smile. "King Dáin the Restorer."

"Well, s'pose that's not too bad," Dáin huffed, and he yawned again. "King Dáin don't have his Ironfoot on right now, so he's going to need a hand or two to get to his royal bed with all his royal bedbugs. Here, lad, give me your shoulder?"

Thrór touched Thorin's am, and he turned away. Stars danced before him, beautiful and mesmerising, before they stole the sight of his sister and cousins and he blinked away the blindness once more in the Chamber of Sansûkhul. "Dáin is two hundred and fifty-one," he said faintly.

Thrór nodded. "Aye. He's right to warn them, I feel. War or no, he's not long for the waking world."

Thorin could dimly remember his cousin at thirty-three years old. They had sheltered for a winter in the Iron Hills after Azanulbizar, and Thorin had been an angry and sullen fifty-five, reeling from the loss of his brother and grandfather. Before the battle Dáin had been a loud and boisterous young Dwarrow with a hair-trigger temper, and Thorin, who was twenty-one years Dáin's senior, had honestly found him rather tiresome. That had changed drastically after the battle. Dáin had become solemn and tired, the cares of his father's realm weighing on his shoulders. He hadn't even stopped to mourn, utterly devoting himself to his people and their welfare. His young wildness and pride all burned away, and it only ever reappeared on the battlefield where he fought as though his life meant little enough. A century and a half later he had answered Thorin's desperate call and found the riches and ruins of Erebor abruptly thrown into his lap – and so once again Dáin had shouldered the crown and the cares of a Kingdom and did not falter, heavy though they were.

Practical, sensible, honourable Dáin. Thorin could feel the sweat from his earlier exertions drying on his skin, and it made it prickle and itch. "He is a good King."

"Better than I," said Thrór with a wry glance. "Better than most. The Stonehelm will do fine, I think. He's a dutiful lad, and Dáin has taught him well."

"Aye," Thorin said, and the tension slowly crept from his shoulders. War loomed over Erebor, and the Fellowship still lingered in the Misty Mountains. What hope, then, was there?

"Suppose you'd better brace yourself for a bop on the nose, my akhûnîth," said Thrór as he let Thorin help him up. Thorin was surprised into a laugh.

"Well, there's nothing new about that," he said, and together they went back to tell the others the news.

* * *

This particular guard-duty was not going to be pleasant.

Thorin had used his best judgement and had assigned Thráin, Frís, Frerin and Fundin to watch over Erebor' defences. Nori, Fíli and Kíli were keeping Bilbo company. Thrór remained with Dáin, and Hrera was watching over the Stonehelm upon his journey to Eryn Lasgalen.

That left the Fellowship – and their destination.

Bifur had volunteered. Balin and Óin and Ori had insisted, though their faces were pinched and unhappy as they made their case. Thorin did not argue. He knew about facing the demons of the past, and how painfully seductive they could be.

The walls rose up before them, and Gimli sucked in an awed breath. To the Men, Hobbits and Elf, no doubt all that could be seen was a sheer cliff, covered in lichen and moss. To Gimli, Thorin knew, there could be seen the ancient marks of chisels, the smooth surface of worked stone, the shallow depressions where once wooden structures had stood, long since rotted.

"The Walls of Moria," said Gandalf gravely, and Gimli whispered a breathless oath.

"Well, I suppose it's very nice," said Pippin loyally, though he was looking at the cliffs and the reeking waters before them with a dubious eye.

Gimli jerked, and then he threw back his head and his joyous, booming laugh rolled over them. "Ah, me! Little Hobbit, you need not say such things for my benefit. I am quite aware that you don't see it as I do!"

"Well, what do you see then?" Sam said, leading Bill as far away from the stinking pool as possible.

"Here," Gimli said, and brushed aside a piece of sodden moss with the toe of his heavy steel-capped boot. "You see this mark? It is an old mining trick. Marks on a wall at hand-height, or on the floor where one may tread, and no-one is ever lost. If visitors came to these gates in full darkness, a friend of Khazad-dûm would still be able to find their way."

"Now, that's a neat trick," said Sam, scratching at his head. "Wonder if that'd work elsewhere?"

"Possibly," Gimli said, and he wrinkled his nose as he thought. "But it requires something rather durable. You see these marks have lasted in this good stone? They wouldn't last long in earth or wood."

"You'd be surprised," the Elf murmured. "I know trees older than your precious mines, and they still stand."

Gimli looked up at him. "Aye. I suppose they do," he said eventually.

"So where's the entrance?" said Pippin, sceptically eyeing the cliffs. "Walls are all very well and good, but a way to get in would be even better."

Gimli chuckled. "Dwarf-doors are invisible when closed."

"Yes, Gimli," said Gandalf. "Their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," murmured the Elf. Gimli paused, his face darkening, and then he controlled himself with some effort and continued to tap at the walls with his axe, listening intently to the song of the stone for any echoes.

Thorin folded his arms and gave the Wizard his best glare. "That was a reference to the side-door of Erebor, I'll bet," muttered Óin. "Bloody Wizards."

"Where's a thrush when y' need one?" Bifur demanded of an unresponsive Sam.

"That water stinks," said Pippin, his face screwed up with distaste. "Really, really badly. Worse than any of the Boffins' pigs."

"That would be the remains of the Sirannon, the Gate-stream," said Gandalf, turning about and looking around the cliffs. "It must have been dammed sometime in the last few decades. We are near where the old West-Gate stood. Ah! Here – you see these holly trees? Hollin this land was once called, and the Elves of the region took holly to be their symbol. These must have been planted in remembrance of the friendship between the Dwarves of Moria and the Elves of the time, in those happier days before it waned."

Gimli glowered. "It was not the fault of the Dwarves that the friendship waned."

"I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves," Legolas immediately retorted.

Thorin, Bifur, Ori, Balin and Óin all growled in unison. "Naturally not," sneered Balin.

"I have heard both," Gandalf said with obvious impatience, "and I will not give judgement now. But I beg you two, Legolas and Gimli, to at least be friends, and to help me. I need you both. The doors are shut and hidden, and the sooner we find them the better. Night is at hand!"

Gimli and Legolas gave each other a sidelong look. Gimli's face was mottled and resentful, and Legolas looked disdainful and slightly disgusted. The minute they noticed the other's regard, their eyes snapped away to stare fixedly at the walls of Moria.

"I wish they'd step away from the water," said Óin under his breath. "That beast may still be alive, twenty-five years or no."

"What do the markings tell you, Gimli?" said Merry into the uncomfortable silence.

"Further," he answered, rather shortly. "It is close."

"Look!" Legolas said, and pointed between the great holly-trees. "Do you see?"

Óin and Ori were very quiet as they followed the Fellowship to the sheer cliff. "Well, that's that," said Balin, and heaved a massive sigh. "This will not be pleasant, my friends."

"Wasn't all that much fun the first time around," Óin mumbled. His eyes still lingered on the rank and reeking waters before them.

"Ah!" Gandalf ran a hand over the wall. "Feel! This – now, wait a minute..." Passing his hands to and fro over the rock, he muttered under his breath for a while. Then he stepped back. "Do you see anything now?"

Gimli shaded his eyes. "Is that..."

The moon passed from behind a cloud, and the thin, quivery white light shone upon the cliff-face, bathing it in an almost silvery glow. Balin sighed again.

"And there it is," he said mournfully, as the ithildin began to shine, outlining the Doors of Durin with their twined Tree, the star-surmounted crown and the anvil and hammer. Below these, a many-pronged star shone out, brighter than the rest, and curling Elvish lettering arced gracefully over all.

"Steady, my friend," Thorin murmured to Balin.

"Easy for you to say," Balin muttered back. Then he huffed out a breath and looked up at Thorin with a wry, bitter expression. "Or perhaps not."

Thorin gave him a thin smile in return. "Aye, I know that feeling well."

"There are the emblems of Durin!" cried Gimli.

"And the Tree of the High Elves!" said Legolas.

"And the Star of the House of Fëanor," said Gandalf, standing back and looking at the doors with a certain air of satisfaction. "Ithildin. It mirrors only starlight and moonlight. The Dwarves were fond of using it to protect their secrets."

Thorin abruptly thought of his father's map, sconced somewhere in the clutter of Bag End. "Much good may it do us in the hands of a Wizard," he growled, "when he hands those secrets to every Elf in his path!"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed and he sent Thorin a rather filthy glare. "These words do not say anything of importance to us."

"What do they say?" Frodo asked, his eyes fascinated. "I thought I knew the Elvish letters, but I can't read these."

"They are the old Elven-tongue of the West," Gandalf said, still glaring at Thorin. "They say only: _The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter._ And underneath small and faint is written: _I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs._ "

Gimli's awed expression melted into a frown, and he glanced again at Legolas. "A Dwarf made the signs of an Elf," he murmured to himself.

"Celebrimbor the great artist trusted this work to a Dwarf," Legolas said, and said no more. His fair face was expressionless, but confusion flickered in his Elven eyes.

"What does it mean by _Speak, friend, and enter?"_ asked Merry.

"That is plain enough," said Gimli. "If you are a friend, speak the password and the doors will open."

"Yes," said Gandalf. "But what the word was is not remembered. No, not even by me!" The Wizard scowled at the expectant faces of the Fellowship.

"Then what was the point of bringing us to this accursed place!" Boromir cried, glancing back at the dark water with a shudder. "You said you had passed this way before!"

"Yes, but I was travelling the other way," he said.

"When?" wondered Ori. "We certainly didn't see nor hear anything of Gandalf during our five years."

"I wonder when exactly it was Gandalf got his hands on that map, and where his travels took him beforehand," said Thorin darkly. "None simply stroll through Moria for fun."

Gandalf either did not hear or was ignoring him again. Óin had the right of it. _Bloody Wizards._

He held out his staff and shook it at the closed doors, bellowing, " _Annon edhellen_ , _edro hi ammen_! _Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen!"_

Absolutely nothing happened – except that Bifur fell over laughing.

"I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Men or Elves or Orcs for such a purpose," Gandalf said to himself through gritted teeth. "I can still remember ten-score without even scratching my head! I should only need to try a few, I think – and I will not need to call on Gimli for words of the secret Dwarf-tongue that they teach to no-one..."

"I should think not," Balin said primly.

"What do we do then?" Pippin said.

"Knock your head on them, Peregrin Took, and if that does not shatter them and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions," and here Gandalf glowered back at Thorin's ghostly guard-detail, "I will attempt to find the opening words."

Then he stamped over to sit on a boulder, and deliberately pulled out his pipe.

"Well, the Doors are something to see, at least," said Merry eventually. "I'm going to go get a snack. Coming, Pip?"

Pippin's crestfallen expression had perked up at the word 'snack'. "You'll have to tie me up in a sack to stop me," he said, and scurried after his cousin.

"The Doors are indeed something to see," said Gimli quietly, gazing upon them with a soft light in his eyes, and Boromir grunted in grudging agreement.

"If this is what your two peoples can achieve together, Gimli, I am no longer surprised by your insistence we come by this dark road," he said, and clapped a hand on Gimli's shoulder. Gimli's smile was a little absent – and a little puzzled.

"Aye, well," he said gruffly, and then he also pulled out his pipe. "No doubt Narvi had to make a few adjustments here and there."

Legolas sniffed and said something that sounded rather biting in his fluid tongue, and Bifur sniggered at his expression.

"Sam," called Aragorn. "Here."

Sam glanced at where Frodo sat beside the motionless Wizard, and then scuttled after the ranger. "Mister Strider, sir," he said, tugging at his ear. "D'you suppose we'll be spending the night out here next to this here cliff? Only I'd like to make a start on supper, if it's at all possible."

"I don't know, Sam," said Aragorn. "But I do know that the Mines are no place for a pony. I am afraid we must send Bill back to Rivendell. Now, don't look that way!" For Sam's eyes had opened very wide, and his mouth had begun to tremble. "He knows the way, and no doubt he will be a great deal safer than we will!"

"Oh, not the sad look," said Ori, and he covered his face. "Hobbits have the _worst_ sad look! I can't bear it, oh – make him stop!"

"What about all them wolves and orcs you and Mister Boromir were talking about?" Sam cried. "Poor Bill! Poor Bill! I'm not leaving him here to be et by something nasty!"

"I'm so sorry," said Aragorn, and he crouched down before Sam and clasped his little round shoulder. "I would not have brought an animal if I had known we were going this way – and certainly not one you are fond of. Still, he has been housed and fed in Rivendell, and no creature forgets that place. The Elves will care for him. He knows the way."

"Can we keep him here just for the night?" Sam's eyes were now perilously big. Ori peeked between his fingers, and then he hid his face again.

"The big weepy eyes," he moaned. "Noooo. Make it stop."

Óin gingerly patted the scribe's shoulder. "Um. There, there?"

"No, Sam. Best to let him go now," said Aragorn, though the big Hobbit eyes were making something of an impression judging from the sympathy in his tone. "Here, help me with the packs."

"Oh," sighed Sam, and slowly he began to take off the bridle and straps, patting the pony's sides and nose the whole time. Bill gave him a mournful look, as if he understood.

"No, I've done seven!" Pippin was saying loudly. "Back on Bywater! And Fatty Bolger saw me, so I've witnesses."

"Seven!" scoffed Merry. "A likely story, and don't think I won't be asking Fatty when next we see him. I'll bet you can't do it now."

"I hope you're not too attached to your purse," Pippin said, and he stooped and picked up a smooth stone and cast it out onto the water. It skipped four times before sinking – and Óin let out a strangled sound.

"What is that dang-fool Hobbit _doing?"_ he cried. "No, no – Thorin, stop them! They mustn't disturb the water!"

"That was only four," Merry said. "Here, let your elders and betters show you how it's done."

"I would, if I could see any here," Pippin retorted rudely, and he crossed his arms and stuck his pert little chin into the air.

As Merry picked up his own stone and began to show off, Thorin whirled to where Gimli sat. "Stop them!" he barked. "Do not disturb the water!"

Gimli, who was sitting with his legs crossed and studying the ithildin filigree of the Doors, blinked. Then he frowned. "Shouldn't disturb that water," he mumbled.

"Tell them!" Óin roared. "They're still throwing stones!"

Gimli leaned back. "Here, little Hobbits! Stop that, no need to stir up more of that foul reek," he said, and Aragorn sent off the pony with a smack to his rump before taking Pippin's hand.

"Do not disturb the water," he said, and observed the ripples dissipating with a watchful eye.

"Don't see why not," Pippin muttered rebelliously, but he dropped his stone nevertheless. Óin sagged, and Bifur stepped close to hold him up.

Suddenly Frodo stood, looking up at the doors with a thoughtful light in his eyes. "It's a riddle," he said softly. Then he turned to Gandalf. "What's the Elvish word for friend?"

" _Mellon,"_ Gandalf replied, and with a crack and a fall of dust, the doors ponderously swung open. A great blackness was revealed, seeming to swallow all moonlight and starlight.

"You mean Merry, of all people, was on the right track?" said Thorin in disbelief.

"First time for everything," Balin said, sounding equally bemused.

"There it is," said Óin, and his voice was troubled. "Mahal be with them and guide their steps."

"Perhaps we'll need some others," Ori suggested. "Lóni and the rest. They might remember more of the safer tunnels."

"I remember the West tunnels well enough," said Balin through clenched teeth.

"Aye, and me," said Óin. "Best keep th' others in reserve until we get to the Eastern side, towards the Dale."

Gimli clapped his helm on his head once more and strode eagerly into the darkness. "Shamukh!" he called joyfully into the echoing, velvety blackness. "Uncle Óin! Cousin Balin! Ori, Lóni, Frár, Flói! Lóni, I have come to beat you again, are you ready? It's me, Gimli, I came to see your colony! Abbad, abbad, buhû!"

"Ach, again with the Khuzdul, Gimli?" Balin scowled at the brawny young warrior. There was anguish and shame dancing in his eyes. "Stop it, barufûn. You mustn't..."

"He will not find us," said Óin in a subdued voice. "I am back in that pool there, if I'm anywhere. Though Gerin was slain at these gates, along with Horís, Urgin and Erri. Those he will find."

"Any minute now," said Ori, and he bit down on his lip, hard.

"I cannot..." Balin said, and Thorin reached out and clasped the back of Balin's neck.

"You can," he said bluntly. "I did."

Balin sent him a look full of self-loathing, and Thorin met it steadily. Then Balin let out a long, low moan and turned back to their young kinsman. Gimli's face was full of joy and happiness, and his eyes were bright with excitement.

"Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves," he said jovially as the Fellowship followed him into the crushing darkness. "Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone. This, my friend, is the home of my cousin, Balin."

Gandalf blew gently on the crystal set in the gnarled grip of his staff. The clear, unwavering white glow slowly crept over the stone floor.

Gimli laughed his booming, merry laugh, delight in every syllable. "And they call it a mine. A _mine!"_

The glow of the crystal poured further over the ground, inexorable as a rising tide. Thorin's breath was caught somewhere in his mouth. He did not want to see Gimli's face change from joy to grief. He did not want to see his bright young flame doused in sorrow.

He could not look away.

Gandalf raised the staff higher, and the strange wizardly fire soared through the silent entrance-hall. Slowly, gradually, battle-marks were revealed. They were scattered on the smooth, ancient polished rock, bare and dusty, etched deep by shadows. Then inevitably the light flowed over the huddled shapes of dust-covered armour, the bleached bones of fingers twisted in mute supplication. Eye-holes gaped and skulls grinned and yawned, lolling obscenely on their bony spines.

Gimli stopped.

"Ach, nephew," said Óin miserably, and he bit down on his hand to stop his harsh breaths.

Gimli was frozen, rooted to the spot. The happiness in his face had utterly fled. His eyes were wide, the whites showing, and his mouth was open and trembled slightly as he gazed over the contorted corpses of Orcs and Dwarves mouldering together where they fell. A stricken cry escaped him. His chest was heaving.

Thorin wanted to take his more-than-son's arms, to hold him close as he cried for his friends and family lost so long ago. He wanted to touch Gimli's bright hair, to make him laugh again. "Unday," he whispered, and he could hear Balin's rasping sobs. Gimli was a Dwarrow alone, as Mahal had said. Gimli was alone with his dead.

"This is no mine," said Boromir, horror in his voice. "This is a tomb."

Gimli had found Urgin, his broad hand wiping off the sigils on the helmet. He threw back his head and howled, a wordless sound of despair.

Legolas was watching the Dwarf with faint puzzlement, as though he was somehow surprised by his grief. "You dare-" Thorin spat, his heart clenching aching for his poor star. "You _dare_ watch him, his grief, his sorrow, as though he is some curiosity for you to gawk at -"

"No," Gimli gasped, and turned around and around, slumped corpses greeting him at every turn. "No!"

"Oh, Gimli," Óin said around his fingers, and his eyes were glossy and wet. "He does not even know the whole sorry tale, and yet he mourns."

"Of course he mourns," Thorin growled, still glaring at the Elf through his own sheen of tears. "Of course he does. He's Gimli. He feels everything to its utmost. Unlike _some._ "

"He must press on through to the Third Level," said Ori quietly.

"Got to keep moving, aye," Óin said, though he would not meet the eyes of anyone else. "Get him up, Thorin."

"Give him a moment," Thorin snarled, but Balin shook his head. Guilt, as familiar as breath, shone in his face.

"Can't stay here, laddie," he said.

Gimli was weeping, and he had fallen to his knees by the ruins of a familiar staff.

"Oh no," Óin breathed.

"Get him up!" Ori barked, and Thorin schooled his own sorrow back ruthlessly.

"Up, Gimli," he said, and then he lifted his voice to a carrying bellow. "Get up, son of Glóin! You must not linger here! There will be time for grief later!"

"No!" Gimli threw back his head and roared his grief at the ceiling like a wounded lion.

The Elf stooped and picked up an arrow from the breast of Erri. " _Yrch_!" he hissed.

"Goblins," Gandalf repeated, and then he closed his eyes heavily. When he opened them he was looking directly at Thorin, and there was the weight of long ages of sorrow and loss in his look. Thorin knew that his own anguish was plain to see, his lips skinned back from his teeth and his eyes wet and flashing.

"I told you before, Gandalf," he gritted out. "You walk into a slaughterhouse."

Gandalf inclined his head, and maybe it was Thorin's imagination but there was a strange, sad resignation in the Wizard's face. Some foreboding, perhaps?

"We make for the Gap of Rohan," said Boromir grimly. "We should never have come here."

At that moment, Frodo gave a cry of surprise and was abruptly yanked off his feet. "Frodo!" Thorin shouted, and Óin let out a hoarse shriek of horror.

"Knew it, I knew it!" he screamed. "That foul beastie, that cursed thing yet lives!"

"Calm yourself, Óin. Be ready, all of you!" Thorin said, and he started forward purposefully, his hand automatically reaching over his shoulder for Orcrist. His fingers groped at empty air. For a moment he wanted to howl at the ceiling like Gimli.

"Ready?" hollered Óin as the creature that had dealt him his gruesome death rose from the stinking depths like some vile nightmare. "Ready for _what?_ What in Mahal's name can we do?"

"Zuznel ataman," moaned Bifur, and Ori nodded fervently.

"Get up," Thorin snapped, his teeth clipping at the words. "Gimli. Get. Up. Frodo needs you! _Gimli!"_

Dark brown eyes refocused, and for the first time ever Thorin saw hatred in the eyes of Gimli son of Glóin. Gimli stood in one smooth motion, and his hands drew his axes with two fluid sweeps of his arms. Aragorn and Boromir were hacking at the foul, writhing tentacles that snatched at Frodo's arms and legs, and Legolas was firing arrows at the lurching, bloated body that rose from the murk.

With a savage cry, Gimli launched himself into the fray, his axes spinning and darting. He moved like a madman, his eyes alight with rage, hacking and slicing at tentacles like a Dwarf possessed. His face was wet with his tears, his expression locked into a rictus of vengeful fury.

"He knows now," choked Ori, and Bifur tugged the little scribe close and hugged him tightly, rocking him from side to side. "He knows we're not alive. Gimli's no fool."

"Shhh, nahùba Ori," Bifur crooned. "Shhh."

"He fights with no care for his own skin," said Óin, still biting at his hand. "Ach, I could smack that boy!"

"You'll do no such thing," Thorin snapped back, before his heart almost leapt into his mouth. "Gimli – rukif!"

Nearly too late, Gimli dodged the tentacle that was reaching for his left side and then brought his axes through it, creating two neat round slices that fell twitching into the water.

"Well, of course I won't be doin' any such thing," Óin mumbled. "I'm _dead."_

"If only I could wield my sword," Thorin said angrily to himself. Helpless bystander was not a role he had ever become resigned to, and he chafed at seeing his star alone and so full of grief, surrounded by those who did not care less about the Dwarven dead or the sacred place they died for.

At that moment Aragorn sliced through the tentacle holding Frodo in the air, and the great beast thrashed as Frodo fell, yelling in fright. Boromir caught the flailing Hobbit and Gandalf shouted, "Quick! Into the Mines!"

Gimli barely heard, his axe whirling and flickering savagely for the monster, deaf and blind to all but his howling heart. "Gimli," Thorin said, low and sharp, "follow. Into the Mines, my lad. Now!"

"Kill you, you-" Gimli choked out.

" _NOW!"_ Thorin thundered.

Gimli bit off a snarl and turned, his heavy footsteps splashing through the foul reeking water. He charged for the Doors as though not even solid rock could stop him, his cheeks pale with despair and his eyes still full of angry tears.

"He's in," Balin said.

"It's _following!"_ Óin garbled, and he grabbed at Thorin's arm.

The Elf, his face pinched and tense, sent arrow after arrow towards the beast as it lumbered and lurched at the open Doors of Durin, tentacles grasping the beautiful ithildin and smearing it with slime. Eventually an arrow pierced the thing's right eye and it made a horrible squelching sound of pain and fury. Its weight fell upon the ancient stone and brought it crumbling down upon its leathery and flabby body, and the last Thorin saw of the Fellowship were their faces: the Hobbits were pale and frightened, the Men were both breathing fast, their eyes pinpricks in their white faces. The Wizard looked unhappily resigned. Gimli was weeping tears of rage and loss, his face twisted until it was nearly unrecognisable.

Then the ancient, graceful, beautiful doors, made by Elf and Dwarf together in Ages past, collapsed on top of the monster, trapping them in the entrance hall and sending a shower of dust rushing for their faces. The Fellowship were swallowed by the darkness. The Black Pit had them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Khuzdul**  
>  Rukif – side (unexpectedly)  
> Zuznel- bad of bad  
> Ataman – breath  
> Nahùba - heroic  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Abbad- I am here!  
> Shamukh – Hail!  
> Buhû - Friends  
> Ghivasha - treasure  
> gamil bâhûn – old friend  
> Khuthûzh - Elves  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> Shazara - Silence  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> 'adad - father  
> Nidoy - boy  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Barufûn – family (man)  
> inùdoy - son
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  _Annon edhellen_ , _edro hi ammen_! _Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen_ \- Gate of the Elves, open now for us! Doorway of the Dwarf-folk listen to the word of my tongue!  
>  _Yrch -_ Orcs
> 
> _I probably won't be able to update again until early next week (maybe) because work is being a killer, erk. You all make me smile so much, and I am so grateful for every review and kudos. Every single one makes my day just a little easier! Thank you all so muuuuuhuhuhuuch! :D_
> 
> _As always, all my love and slavish worship to persianslipper and the Dwarrow Scholar. Mwah._
> 
> And now, a comic!
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/60905913900/hobbity-big-sad-eyes-effect-go)  
>   
> _Hobbity Big Sad Eyes, by[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/60905913900/hobbity-big-sad-eyes-effect-go)_


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam**   
>  _Mizim daughter of Ilga_
> 
> Mizim, a renowned Dwarven beauty, was the daughter of Mur and Ilga, both wealthy mine-owners. Her eyes are very dark and her hair very pale, and her sturdy and voluptuous figure is the envy of all Dwarrowdams. Mizim is quite upper-class and she cuts and polishes gemstones. She is matter-of-fact and to the point, with a rather dry, biting humour. Enduring the reactions to her famous beauty has left her with an abiding hatred of artifice, insincerity and smarm. She married Glóin son of Gróin after a tumultuous courtship and bore two children, Gimli Elf-Friend and Gimrís, Lady of Aglarond. Mizim is an expert at the throwing of knives, and taught her daughter the art. She also gave her son a lifelong interest in the shaping and manufacture of jewels and crystals - a skill that later came in rather handy.
> 
> Edit: The astonishing [Jeza-red](jeza-red.tumblr.com) has drawn Mizim! And she truly is a silver beauty, OMG. If you haven't seen the utter perfection of Jeza's Dwarrows yet, you have to see this!
> 
> [Mizim, wife of Glóin .](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/60900842758/in-determamfidds-sansukh-bomfris-daughter-of)
> 
> * * *

"We now have but one choice," came Gandalf's old and creaking voice. "We must face the long dark of Moria."

The crystal atop his staff rekindled, and Thorin blinked in the sudden white, wan glow. The faces of the Fellowship were tense and pale in the darkness. Gimli's jaw rippled and his cheeks were stained with tears, but he no longer wept. Rage still burned in his deep dark eyes.

"Stay close, all of you," Gandalf continued. "There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world."

The dim light of his staff only illuminated a few feet ahead, and Thorin blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted. His heart was still hammering from the collapse of the Doors and the attack of the Watcher. His pulse thudded and raced in his neck and temples.

Óin licked his lips and stepped close as the Fellowship began to wend their way from the collapsed rubble towards the stairs. "The First Level lies ahead," he murmured. "They needn't go higher than the fourth to get to the other side."

"Which way from the stairs?" Thorin murmured back. His voice was hoarse from shouting.

"Left," Ori said tightly.

"Gandalf," Thorin said, and waited for the Wizard's eyes to flicker to him. "Left here."

Gandalf rolled his eyes and nodded, before he muttered, "that the day has come, Thorin Oakenshield, in which I should take any sort of directions from _you..._ "

"Take the advice or discard it," Thorin replied crisply. "Either way suits me well, but if you would ignore the directions of a Dwarf underground I will think less of you than I did before."

Gandalf smiled grimly. "Plain-spoken as always. Very well, left it is!"

"Who are you talking to?" asked Pippin, his piping voice small and frightened in the darkness. His eyes were very large and his face very white in the glow of Gandalf's staff.

"Myself, Master Took," Gandalf said, with a warning glance to the dead Dwarves. "Just remembering the way. We turn left here. Now, don't look so scared! I told you I had passed this way before, and with care and caution I know it can be done. I will see you safely to the other side, never fear."

"Easy enough for you to say," Pippin mumbled, and he looked around at the crumbling stone and swallowed. "I don't like this at all. It's very unfriendly."

"And cold," Sam added. "And these stone floors aren't all that forgivin' on the feet, if you'll pardon me saying Mister Gimli."

Gimli did not answer. His head was bowed and his eyes downcast. His fist was still clenched around the haft of his axe, and it shook slightly as he trudged along behind Boromir.

Gandalf glanced over at Thorin, who also lowered his eyes. "You know him best, I believe," the Wizard said in a voice that could scarcely be heard, his lips barely moving. "What should we do for him?"

"I honestly don't know," Thorin said, regarding his star with worry. "I have never seen him like this. Gimli is a merry soul. I do not believe he has ever known tragedy so closely before."

"Hmm. Tragedy has a way of revealing our greatest strengths," Gandalf replied, and he lifted his staff to peer down the tunnel.

"Or our greatest weaknesses," Thorin said darkly.

"As cheerful as ever, I see."

"I feel as if the mountain is pressing in on me," Legolas said, his face wooden and his voice halting. "How long is the journey?"

"Four days," Gandalf said, "though we will have some trouble counting them without the sun. Gimli will be our guide there."

The Elf frowned. "How so?"

"Why, a Dwarf has a sense of time underground, did you not know?" Gandalf said, feigning astonishment. Then he sent a surreptitious wink to Thorin and his comrades.

"You sly old fox," said Balin admiringly. "If Gimli had said that..."

"Another argument, no doubt," Óin said, and he smiled, though it was wobbly and thin. "Clever. Some use in bein' a Wizard after all."

Gandalf looked rather pleased with himself as he stepped through an archway and led them along a passage towards another connecting chamber.

"Look!" said Merry, and he pointed out a couple of marks against the wall. "Is this what you were talking about, Gimli?"

The ruddy head finally lifted, and Gimli stepped forward to run his heavy hand over the deep carving, intricate and clear despite the centuries. "Aye," he rasped. "That's a mine-sign. I don't recognise it, though: too old, no doubt. All of them will have changed over the centuries. The ones they used back then will be different to those I know."

"It's... pretty," said Merry, and he peered at it owlishly. "Look, Pip! Isn't it pretty?"

"I didn't think anything in this place could be pretty," Pippin said, also studying the marks.

Gimli stiffened.

"Oh," Pippin faltered, and Frodo sighed.

"Maybe we should keep going," he suggested gently, and Pippin bit down on his lip before nodding.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, before scurrying towards the front of the line where Aragorn and Gandalf were moving on.

"He's young," Frodo said, and smiled at Gimli sadly. "He didn't mean that."

"I know," Gimli said heavily, and he looked up from the mine-sign. His anger was still bright as flames in his eyes. "I'm not offended. Just..."

"Pippin hasn't ever known loss," Frodo said, and he reached out with a tentative hand to touch Gimli's massive shoulder. "He says the first thing in his head without ever thinking it through, and he doesn't ever consider that it might hurt someone until after he says it. Expect him to hang all over you later, begging for your forgiveness."

Gimli snorted. "That sounds irritating."

Relief struck Thorin so strongly he almost buckled. _That_ sounded far more like his star.

Frodo grinned, his teeth flashing in the darkness. "It is."

Touching the mine-sign once more, Gimli sighed. The rage was draining from his eyes to be replaced with a bone-deep sorrow. "I'm truly not offended. Truly. I only..."

Frodo's hand landed on Gimli's shoulder once more. "I understand."

Gimli's mouth tightened. "Do you? My people... they were dead and left to the air and the orcs. Their bodies were not under stone, not even burned. I knew that Dwarf. His name was Urgin. If he can be lying there, unburied, without the rites..." He stopped, breathing through his nose, and his jaw rippled beneath his thick uncombed beard.

"I do," Frodo said quietly. "Bilbo raised me because my parents were lost to the Brandywine River. I didn't even have a body to bury. I used to wonder if the river would one day give them back to me, as quickly as it took them away."

Gimli's straight Durin brow furrowed, and he bowed his head again. "My apologies, then. You do understand."

"There may be someone left," said Frodo, and spread his hands. "Perhaps your hope will prove true where mine failed."

"It is a fool's hope," said Gimli and he touched the mine-sign again with gentle fingers. "A fool's hope. We do not leave our dead thus, not if we have power and breath to lay them beneath stone. No, I do not think we will find a single living Dwarrow left in these halls."

"Whatever we find, Gimli," Frodo said, and he patted Gimli's shoulder, "we are here with you."

"Aye, you are," Gimli murmured, and he straightened. "I may be the only living Dwarf in Khazad-dûm, but I am not alone."

"Will you tell me about them?" Frodo asked, and Gimli took a short, sharp intake of breath.

"My uncle, my cousin..." he began, and he stopped, his throat working around a swallow. "Perhaps later."

Frodo nodded. "Perhaps later."

Balin and Óin had huddled together tightly, their shoulders touching and their eyes downcast. Ori was wringing his hands and muttering, "got to move on! They've got to move on. Can't stay here!"

Gimli's hand rose and he grasped Frodo's hand where it lingered at his shoulder. "Thank you, Frodo. My family seems to have a habit of becoming fond of Bagginses. I am beginning to see why."

Balin shot a meaningful look at Thorin, who scowled back at him. "Not. A word."

"Did I say anything, laddie?" Balin said innocently.

"Didn't need to, I could hear you thinkin' it very loudly," murmured Óin.

"Come on," Gimli said, and began to lead Frodo onwards. "Mustn't let the others get too far ahead of us. I can see better than you can in this darkness: I'll lead you true."

"I have no doubt," Frodo said, keeping his hand on Gimli's shoulder. "But do mind my feet! Sam wasn't exaggerating in the slightest about this cold rock."

Gimli actually managed a chuckle, though it was sad and strained and no smile touched his lips. "Aye, well. It would have been paved, once. Seems as though the paving's been stripped, or maybe just ruined for the sake of destruction. I won't ever pretend t' know the mind of an orc."

"A shame," Frodo said. "I'm sure it would have been more comfortable!"

As they moved off behind the rest of the Fellowship, Thorin glanced down at the mine-sign. It was indeed beautiful and ancient.

"I started to decipher them," Ori said in a soft voice.

"What did it say?" Thorin asked distantly.

"'Vir son of Nir is a giant prat'," Ori mumbled, and Óin dissolved into slightly hysterical chuckles.

"Perhaps it is just as well that Gimli cannot read them," Thorin said, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

Faintly through the soft, still silence, the rumble of Gimli's voice reached them from where he led Frodo ahead of their guard detail.

"He's singing?" said Ori in surprise.

"It's the mourning song," said Balin, and the black guilt was back in his voice.

"Adùruth, adùruth, nekhushel,  
Ayamuhud, ayamuhud, zesulel" :

[[Khazad Mourning Song, performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66845052974/the-third-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this-comes)]

Gimli sang underneath his breath, the deep notes like quiet thunder in the empty mines.

"That's pretty too," said Pippin in a whisper, and Sam shushed him.

"Never you mind, you scallywag," he said. "Remember what he said about that language o' his. He's not goin' to tell you what it means, so don't you go opening that trap of yours to ask!"

"I wouldn't!" Pippin protested, and he glanced back at Gimli with worried eyes. "I wouldn't make him feel worse for all the cake in Tuckborough. He's a _friend_ , Sam: I wouldn't hurt a friend. I'm a Hobbit of great sensitivity, I am."

"And I'm the Queen of Harad," muttered Merry.

Gimli finished his song and exhaled slowly, his barrel chest falling. His broad shoulders were slumped where Frodo's hand rested for guidance. The Ringbearer said nothing and simply walked beside him, offering silent support and comfort.

Balin's voice was a whisper in the crushing, suffocating dark. "How do you face this, Thorin?" he rasped. "How did you move on?"

Thorin stared into the depths of their ancestral home. "What makes you believe I have moved on? I carry my guilt with me, old friend. I have simply learned to carry it for longer without collapsing beneath its weight."

Balin bowed his head, and then he began to fade as the stars of Gimlîn-zâram reclaimed him.

"Nekhushîn," whispered Bifur, and Ori put his head in his hands and nodded.

"Aye, and now it claims new pain," said Óin sadly, watching his nephew trudge through the deep and velvet blackness with steady tread and lowered eyes.

"He yet moves. Torment in the dark will not stop him," Thorin pointed out, and Óin snorted.

"Course he does," he said with a slight jerk of his head. "He's a Dwarf of Durin's line, and this is Khazad-dûm, no matter the monsters that have taken hold here."

"I hope his sadness doesn't take too much a hold of him," Ori murmured, and he watched over Gimli's plodding steps with anxious eyes.

Thorin drew himself tall. He knew how to give his strength. He knew what it was to be strong for others. Gimli had been his safety and his laughter: Gimli had been his strength for eighty years. He would act the King he was meant to be, and give his to Gimli in return.

"Balakhûn, my star," he said in Gimli's ear. "Khulel, khathuzhâl."

Gimli sighed deeply, and his legs kept moving rhythmically into the dead, echoing Halls of their greatest ancestor. The dull stamp of his heavy boots rang back from empty corridors, echoed by the pitter of Hobbit feet, the slight rasp of Elvish shoes and the long tread of the Men.

"Nearing midnight," murmured Ori, and Bifur nodded.

"I'll change off with another," he said. "Strength to him, and to you."

"Bring others to take your watch," Thorin ordered crisply, and Bifur nodded again before he began to fade. The stars of the Chamber edged his silhouette for a brief moment, and then he was gone, returned to the world of the dead.

Ori shivered. "I've never gotten used to seeing that."

Balin's place at the Fellowship's side was taken by Frerin, and Fíli came to relieve Bifur. Ori and Óin stayed, though their lips were pressed tightly together and their hands were clenched into fists.

"Glóin has made it over the Misty Mountains," Fíli said quietly. "He now travels through the land of the Beornings."

"Good," Thorin grunted. "Erebor?"

"Prepares for war," Frerin said. "The engines are being built in record time: Dori is a harsh taskmaster. The training continues, and Dwalin is happier than a fox in a henhouse. Dís is holding a sword-tourney for her students."

Thorin snorted. "Of course she is."

"The Stonehelm is nearly to the court of the Elvenking," Frerin continued. "He will be there in a few days, and we will see if Thranduil heeds the call against the master of the Black Land."

"I dinnae hold out much hope on that front," Óin muttered.

"Where are we here?" asked Fíli, looking around and squinting in the crushing darkness.

"Moria," said Ori shortly, and Óin sighed.

"The Doors are gone," Thorin told his brother and nephew in a low voice. "Gimli begins to guess that he will not find his family and friends alive. The Fellowship is uneasy."

"As they should be," Ori muttered.

"They've three more days until they reach the other side," added Óin. His face was bleak.

"They'll reach the Second Level soon," added Ori, and he twisted his gloved hands. "The Chamber... the Chamber of Mazarbul is..."

"Aye," Frerin said eventually, and he laid his hand on the shoulder of the unhappy scribe. "No need to say it."

Thorin was glad he had organised the watches. Balin would need to find his equilibrium again before braving Moria once more. It was a heavy thing, that burden of guilt. Time was all that helped. Time would see him learn how to shoulder it and move on.

The Mines stretched on and on, and though the darkness was close and comforting to the watchers, Thorin could see the tension building in the Elf and Hobbits. The Fellowship camped that evening at the base of a crumbled pillar, and Gimli took off his gauntlets and touched the dusty stone with his bare fingers. "Still smooth," he murmured.

Legolas turned to Aragorn and hissed, "why do we stop here? We must press on!"

"Calm yourself," the Man said in a low voice. "The Hobbits need rest after their fright at the Doors. Besides, there are other, more compassionate reasons to halt for a short while."

Legolas' face didn't alter, but his bright blue eyes tightened. "Gwaem, Aragorn! Dôl gîn lost. We do not need to stay for the Nogoth. This show of mourning can happen just as easily on the move as it does sitting still."

Aragorn turned to him with a stern face, and his expression was cold and lordly. "That is unworthy of you, mellon. He makes no pretence of mourning. He has lost his people and his family, and that is true grief in his face. A little more kindness from the Elves at this point would help him think better of you."

"Nothing will make him think better of an Elf," Legolas said. His face was still calm, but his shoulders had tightened at the rebuke. "He takes offense at everything I say or do. This was already an uncomfortable journey before we took to this forsaken pit!"

"You cannot see?" Aragorn sounded surprised. "Gimli avoids you because you are not friendly to him, Legolas. You treat him differently to the rest of the Fellowship."

Legolas' mouth opened on a soft inhale, and then he took a lithe, quick step forward. "I do not," he said, stung.

"You do," Aragorn said, and there was grim amusement in his voice. "You have, to my memory, insulted the very existence of Dwarves directly to his face."

Legolas looked as though he would retort for a moment, and then his face hardened and he turned away with a flash of golden hair to sit upon an outcropping of broken stone, muttering pensively to himself.

 _That_ was a surprise. Thorin folded his arms, eyeing the Man speculatively. He had not expected defence from that quarter. Aragorn obviously found the Elf to be good company, though Thorin could not think why. They slipped back into that garbled birdsong language every now and then to converse, and each time made Gimli glower like a thunderstorm. Yet Aragorn now took Gimli's part in their dispute? Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Aragorn was strange. Thorin did not understand him. Thorin had been forced into exile, wandering lost and distant from the crown and throne that were his by right. He certainly would not have chosen such a fate. Yet the Man born to be King deliberately opted for the nomadic life of a Ranger?

Men were bizarre.

Still, this one was a good leader, and a skilled and canny outdoorsman. He also seemed to have a clear eye and a sense of fairness, despite having been raised by Elves. Thorin did not know how Men judged such things, but Aragorn seemed to him to be all a King should be: wise, just, strong and good. The fact that he was a superb swordsman didn't hurt either.

Why then did the Man hide beneath the tattered leathers and uncombed hair of a Ranger?

Gimli slept fitfully that night, one hand upon the smooth, ancient stone and the other restless upon his axe. Pippin and Merry slept close (Pippin tucked his feet into Gimli's bedroll without a single flicker of shame). Frodo and Sam bundled up on the other side of Gandalf, and Boromir took the outside posting, bracketing the sleeping Hobbits with his larger form and shielding them from the corridor.

Aragorn took the first watch after speaking quietly with Gandalf and Boromir for a few moments. He set himself up on the most Easterly edge of their corridor, and began to clean his sword of all the ichor and slime left by the Watcher. Óin shuddered violently.

"Zûr zu?" asked Thorin quietly.

"Ah, laddie. I don't think I'll ever be well," he answered bleakly.

"It's dead now," said Ori comfortingly.

"What's dead?" Fíli asked.

"The Watcher," said Ori. "The Doors fell on it."

"Shh, that bloody Elf's coming back," hissed Frerin, and he mimed a rude sign in Iglishmêk behind Legolas' back. The corner of Thorin's mouth twitched.

"Stop that," he said.

"You are always such a spoilsport," Frerin complained as Fíli and Ori tried to stifle their giggles.

"Aragorn," Legolas said low, "Goheno nin."

"Iston," Aragorn replied. "But it is not me you should apologise to, Legolas."

Legolas let out an exasperated gust of breath and sat down beside the Man. He was almost ungainly in his irritation: a most unelvish thing. No doubt Thranduil would disapprove.

"I do not understand," Legolas confided, and he ran a long-fingered hand through the fine golden silk of his hair and blew out another exasperated puff of air. "He is not what I have always known Dwarves to be."

"Who was it who told you what a Dwarf was, Legolas?" Aragorn asked, and he leaned back as he struck a light and brought it to his pipe. The Elf's nose wrinkled at the smell, but he continued.

"I do not speak of tales or histories or rumours. I am not young, and I have known Dwarves before. I have looked into his father's face and seen only anger and resentment shine back at me!"

"Those were not exactly the best or most friendly of circumstances," Aragorn pointed out dryly.

Legolas scowled, but he grudgingly nodded his head in assent. "Yes, that is true. Still, it has been known for Age upon Age that a Dwarf cannot feel the way the true Children of Ilúvatar can. They cannot feel true love for anything but their precious stones. They cannot even feel affection for their kin and friends. Sorrow is beyond them, as is joy. They can only covet and resent. This is _known,_ Aragorn!"

"You _filthy lying Elf-scum!"_ snarled Thorin. Dimly he realised that his arms were held in place by Ori and Frerin, and that Fíli was hauling him around the chest.

"Du bekâr!" Óin shouted, and Thorin roared in agreement.

"Easy, brother," Frerin grunted, throwing all his strength into holding Thorin's arm still. Thorin was taller and heavier than his brother, forever frozen in mid-adolescence, and he was gradually gaining the upper hand. "Easy! You can't affect them. You can't touch them, and all you'll do is wake Gimli. No-one else can hear you. Settle yourself!

"Known by whom, Legolas?" Aragorn asked softly. "Known by Elves? Did they bother to ask a Dwarf?"

Legolas' mouth snapped shut, and then he said slowly, "I do not think we ever did. And here I finally see the proof of the lie: he is grieving, and it is true grief. I can see it in his face, in the way he sings to himself, in the thudding tread of his feet. If he can feel true grief, what else can he feel?"

Ori gaped, and Óin deflated like a drained wineskin. "Are m' ears finally playing up again?" he demanded. "I can't have heard that right..."

"What else can he feel?" Aragorn took a draw of his pipe and gave the Elf an amused sidelong glance. "All that a mortal _can_ feel, I'd imagine. You say you have seen the grief in his face. Then you have seen more, no doubt. I know your Elf-eyes, my friend."

"I have seen it," Legolas said, and he closed those shining eyes in defeat. "I did not want to accept it."

Thorin abruptly stopped struggling against Ori and Frerin, his mouth dropping open slightly.

"Oh, thank Mahal," Fíli groaned, and he sank back with a wheeze. "You're too damned strong. If I weren't dead already then you'd have finished the job."

"Change comes easier to mortals, I fear," Aragorn said, smiling.

"It was all there," Legolas groaned. "Everything he feels is writ upon his face so clearly that a blind man could see it - sunk to the cheeks in hair though it is! He feels it all, and so fiercely that it is like a fire. He is like a fire – it burns me, Aragorn, to know I have been so blind."

"It is no easy thing to know that you have been wrong," said Aragorn gently. "You see him now with an open eye, and yet your old misconceptions still howl and rattle in your mind."

"He is bowed down by the endless grief of mortals, and yet no darkness daunts him," Legolas said, his long fingers grasping at each other. "Made strong to endure, just as he said. Are all Dwarves thus, or only this one?"

Aragorn's answering shrug was wry.

"Affection, for the Hobbits, for his friends, for his family," Legolas mused. "Did you not see him with his father Glóin? I overheard him speaking to Sam about his sister and her son, and he loves that child with everything he has in him. He has spoken of nothing but his cousin and uncle and friends ever since we neared Caradhras. He grew up with one of these lost colonists, he said. Lóni, his name was. They earned their warrior's braids together. He was Gimli's best friend, as close as a brother."

Legolas paused, and then he hung his head. "His best friend," he repeated, and winced. "What else do I know that is wrong? Is everything I know wrong?"

"You could ask him," Aragorn suggested. "As you say, you have known Dwarves before. But how many of them answered any questions?"

Legolas blinked, and then his fine brows drew together. "None."

"None," Aragorn agreed. "They guard their secrets. But Gimli answers questions, does he not?"

The faintly inscrutable smile of the Elves crossed Legolas' lips. "He does."

"I am suddenly even more grateful that Balin has left," said Ori.

"Ach, _what_ has that boy said now!" Óin cried, aghast.

* * *

Thorin slept and rose again. His father watched him with dark and worried eyes as he gulped down water and a slice of bread with cheese. "You spent twenty-eight hours in the starry waters without pause," he said quietly.

"Yes," Thorin said. He felt no need to defend it. "And I take to them again now. Gimli walks in Moria, and I will not leave him alone."

"Do not forget to rest," Thráin said, and tucked Thorin's uncombed hair behind his ears. "Dead we may be, but you are not made of stone."

Thorin smiled faintly. "I know of a few who may disagree with you."

Thráin smiled back, before nodding over to where Frís was sitting. A pot of her favourite tea rested before her, and she was watching them both. "Your mother worries. For her sake, do not disappear again."

"I know my mother worries," he replied, and he could feel his back stiffening. "So do I."

"Aye," Thráin said, and he shook his head. "Well, you'll do as you must, my son. Remember, we are here should you need us."

Thorin took his father's broad and powerful hand. "I remember," was all he said. "Âkminrûk zu, 'adad."

Thráin squeezed his hand in return, and then he sighed. "Balin, Ori and Óin await you. Náli, Lóni and Frár also stand ready. The tale of the Fellowship's journey into Moria has spread throughout the Halls like wildfire. Practically every Dwarf stands ready to serve."

"Did you stand with Dáin last night?" Thorin asked, shaking off the sentiment and the last vestiges of his sleep.

"Aye, for a while. Then I stopped with your sister. She misses Gimli." Thráin shook his great grizzled head again. "I still cannot believe that she has become so fond of him."

"Gimli has a way about him, sometimes," Thorin said. "Oh, that reminds me: Do _not_ mention the Elf to grandfather! He has begun to ask some rather interesting – and insulting - questions regarding Dwarves. Frerin, Fíli and Ori had to hold me back. I dread to think what grandfather will do!"

"Thranduil's son," Thráin said, and rubbed at his eyes. "Aye, he wouldn't react well at all. Too much bad blood there. What sort of questions?"

Thorin's smile turned grim. "He apparently entertains the idea that Dwarves have feelings. It shocks him."

"That...!" Thráin startled, and then he bit off a savage curse. "Ach, Khuthûzh!"

"Indeed." Thorin gave his father a considering look. "How do you fare through all of this?"

"Never you mind, boy," Thráin said heavily. "I am well enough. The memories still rise and fester, and now and then I can taste the old madness in the back of my mouth... but your mother is with me, and your grandmother. She barks and scolds and cossets at me until I am myself again."

"That'd work," Thorin agreed, and Thráin chuckled softly.

"Aye, better than any physic."

"Mizùl," Thorin said, and butted his father's head softly and rested there for a moment, taking strength from Thráin's solidity and power for a moment.

"And you, my son," Thráin said. "And you."

Balin, Ori and Óin were waiting in the Chamber of Sansûkhul, and their faces were tight and grim. "Early morning," Óin remarked, his voice hushed. "They will be moving again, no doubt."

"They did not stop all night?" Thorin frowned.

"They began again after a few hours, laddie," Balin said. "Though I believe they stopped at the old crossways not long ago. Gandalf has forgotten the way."

"Forgotten the...!" Thorin said, and then he rubbed at his temples.

"Bloody Wizards," muttered Óin.

"They're not far," Ori said, and he bit down on his lip before nodding over to two unnervingly still figures in the glistening half-light. "Kíli and Fíli took the last watch."

Thorin glanced over his nephews, taking in their tired faces as they slept, slumped over each other on the bench. "Ah. They told you all this?"

"Before they passed out, aye," Óin said. "It's been a tryin' time."

"If it is trying for us, it is doubly so for the Fellowship." Thorin took his bench and carefully moved Kíli's foot out of the way, before resting his hand briefly against the silky bright and dark hair spilling over his nephews' sleeping faces. He would let the lads rest a while longer. "Come, let's find them."

"He will find us today," Balin said in a mournful whisper, and then the stars were glittering and whirling beneath the waters, their radiance eclipsing the world of the dead.

When the glow had faded, Thorin was blinking at a set of three graceful arches in the old Longbeard style. Gandalf was seated, glowering and smoking, before them, his face like thunder.

"Merry!" Pippin whispered.

"What?"

"...I'm hungry."

Thorin rolled his eyes. _Hobbits._

Suddenly Frodo stood, his eyes filled with a nervous fear, and he made his way to the Wizard. He looked very small against the grandeur of old Khazad-dûm, his feet whispering against the stone. "There's something down there," he hissed.

"It's Gollum," Gandalf replied, and Thorin jerked backwards. The creature from the cave? The creature that had tried to kill his Bilbo?

"Gollum!" he said in unison with Frodo.

"He's been following us for three days," Gandalf continued, a glimmer in his old, old eyes.

"He escaped the dungeons of Barad-dur?" Frodo was incredulous – and for that matter, so was Thorin.

"Nothing escapes the grasp of Sauron," he said with finality. "My father is proof of that!"

"Escaped – or was let loose?" Gandalf said, and his eyes flicked to Frodo meaningfully. He continued to speak of the creature, and Thorin shuddered violently as Gandalf revealed that the cursed Ring was behind Gollum's insanity. How close – how very close Bilbo had come to –

No, he would not think it.

"Easy," murmured Balin. "Easy, Thorin. He let it go. Bilbo is the only one in all of history to release the Ring of his own free will."

"He almost did not," Thorin said, hating every word.

"But he did," Balin said, and patted Thorin's arm. "Easy."

"It's a pity Bilbo didn't kill him when he had the chance," Frodo said with surprising heat. Thorin agreed one hundred percent.

"Kill it!" he snarled, and Balin's hand tightened on his arm warningly. "Kill the foul thing once and for all. It has lived too long – put it out of the world for good!"

"Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo's hand. Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life." Gandalf sent a pointed look to Thorin from under his bushy brows, and Thorin swallowed against a throat made suddenly dry and painful. "Can you give it to them, Frodo?

Frodo paused, and a lost expression passed over his face.

"Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends." Gandalf's mouth twitched as he glanced again at Thorin and his companions. "My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many."

"He is too forgiving," Thorin choked. "There are many who receive such forgiveness and do not deserve it."

Frodo sat heavily, and his lost expression had turned forlorn. His head bowed under the weight of the chain about his neck. "I wish the ring had never come to me... I wish none of this had happened."

"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide," Gandalf said gently. The old wizard smiled down at the Hobbit, before meeting Thorin's eyes once more. His face was filled with an unearthly compassion. Abruptly Thorin wondered which of the Valar Gandalf had loved and learned from. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the ring. In which case, you also were meant to have it...and that is an encouraging thought."

"No, it is not," Thorin grated. "It is the _opposite_ of encouraging – and who decided that Bilbo was meant to find it? The _Ring_ decided! Forgive me if I do not trust its judgement!"

Gandalf ignored him, and said brightly, "Ah! It's that way!"

"Wait, what?" Óin blinked. "I couldae told him that!"

"He's remembered!" Merry said in relief.

"No, but the air doesn't smell so foul down there," Gandalf said, and patted the young Brandybuck on the back. "When in doubt, Master Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

"I couldae told him that!" Óin persisted, turning to Ori. Ori spread his hands helplessly.

"The Fourth Level," said Balin in a wondering voice. Even though these Mines had cost his life, longing still stole over his face as Gandalf raised his staff and flooded the vast Hall of Feast with his pale crystal light.

Gimli, who had been a silent shadow to that point, gasped in awe as the tall columns were revealed, beautiful and intricate beyond any craft he had ever seen. His eyes glistened with reverence and wonder.

"Well there's an eye-opener and no mistake," Sam said, his eyes very round and large. Ori glanced at him once and then he quickly turned away with a small whimper.

"Tell me when he stops the Hobbity big-eye-thing," he muttered.

"There must have been a mighty crowd of dwarves here at one time," said Sam; "and every one of them busier than badgers for five hundred years to make all this, and most in hard rock too! What did they do it all for? They didn't live in these darksome holes surely?"

"These are not holes," said Gimli. His face was upturned and serene as he gazed over the ruined grandeur of the Hall of Feast. "This is the great realm and city of the Dwarrowdelf. And of old it was not darksome, but full of light and splendour, as is still remembered in our songs."

Legolas, watching, tilted his head in fascination as he regarded the Dwarf. His eyebrows were drawn together again, and he seemed about to ask a question. Before he could open his mouth, however, Gimli began to sing softly. His deep voice rumbled into the dark and echoed in the carved buttresses and from prehistoric stone. It was as if the mountain itself was singing, dark and profound and ancient :

[[The Song of Durin, performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66846071355/the-fourth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this-is-also)] 

"The world was young, the mountains green,  
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,  
No words were laid on stream or stone,  
When Durin woke and walked alone.  
He named the nameless hills and dells;  
He drank from yet untasted wells;  
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,  
And saw a crown of stars appear,  
As gems upon a silver thread,  
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,  
In Elder Days before the fall  
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond  
And Gondolin, who now beyond  
The Western Seas have passed away:  
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne  
In many-pillared halls of stone  
With golden roof and silver floor,  
And runes of power upon the door.  
The light of sun and star and moon  
In shining lamps of crystal hewn  
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night  
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,  
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;  
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;  
The delver mined, the mason built.  
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,  
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,  
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,  
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;  
Beneath the mountains music woke:  
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,  
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,  
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;  
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;  
The shadow lies upon his tomb  
In Moria, in Khazad-dum.  
But still the sunken stars appear  
In dark and windless Mirrormere;  
There lies his crown in water deep,  
Till Durin wakes again from sleep."

"Will you never _stop_ with the damned secrets, cousin?!" Balin nearly shrieked.

"I like that!" said Sam. "I should like to learn more of it."

Gimli said nothing. Having sung his song, he would say no more. A little late, Thorin felt. "You are being reckless, inùdoy," he sighed. "And you are going to send Balin and Óin into traditionalist paroxysms."

Gimli simply stared out at the Hall, drinking it in, his dark eyes alight with wonder and sorrow.

"Oh, lad," Óin said sadly, before scowling. "I should like to give you a thick ear and then get you drunk. You know better than this."

"He is alone and full of grief," Ori said defensively. "He'll find his comfort where he can."

"He'll not be finding comfort with any o' these," Óin retorted, "an' so he should _stop givin' 'em things that don't belong to 'em!"_

"Shazara," Thorin murmured. "It is done."

"Aye, everything is done," Óin muttered, and Balin rumbled his angry agreement. "What I'm sayin' is it should never have _been_ done!"

"Are there piles of jewels and things all lying about still, do you suppose?" Merry said eagerly.

"Piles of jewels?" Gandalf snorted. "No! The Orcs have often plundered Moria, and naught is left that can be carried. Not in these upper levels at any rate: since the Dwarves fled, none dare disturb the lower levels."

Balin trembled violently, and Thorin reached out and grasped the back of his neck. "Strength, Balin," he said.

"We heard it," Balin said hoarsely. "Now and then. I didnae wish to acknowledge it..."

"Shhh." Thorin nodded to Ori, and the scribe nodded back before leading the Fellowship onwards.

"This way," he said.

"Gandalf," Thorin said, and the wizard nodded imperceptibly.

"If there's no treasure, why do the Dwarves want to come back?" asked Pippin, and then he flinched as both Sam and Merry hushed him with many worried looks at Gimli. The brawny young Dwarrow barely noticed, still lost in contemplation of the forest of graceful pillars, the seat of his ancient and noble people, the home of his ancestors.

Thorin could relate.

"For mithril, amongst other things," Gandalf answered diplomatically, and he began to follow Ori through the vast echoing Hall of Feast. "The wealth of Moria was not in gold and jewels, the toys of the Dwarves: nor in iron, their servant. Here alone in the world was found Moria-silver, or truesilver: mithril is the Elvish name. Its worth was ten times that of gold and now it is beyond price, for little enough of it is left above ground and even Orcs do not dare delve too deeply for it. Bilbo had a corslet of mithril-rings that Thorin gave him. I wonder what has become of it? Gathering dust in Michel Delving Mathom-house, no doubt."

"What?" cried Gimli, shocked out of his silent contemplation of the ruin of Khazad-dûm, stately and beautiful even in decay. "That was a kingly gift!"

Thorin fought the urge to squirm under the sudden attention of three dead Dwarves and a Wizard.

"Yes," said Gandalf, smiling. "I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the whole Shire and everything in it."

"You can all stop looking at me now," Thorin growled.

"Aye, leave him alone," Balin said, trying and failing to keep the amusement from his voice. "He'll be as cross as a bear with a sore paw otherwise."

"You mean he can be otherwise?" sniggered Óin, and he ducked as Thorin swiped at him with a fist. "Ah, too slow, my King. Do I get a pretty mithril prize?"

"You'll get a busted lip in a moment," Thorin snarled.

" _Dwarves_ ," said Gandalf under his breath.

At that moment Gimli let out a hoarse cry, and began to run for a half-hidden door. Ori swore loudly, and Thorin looked at him with some surprise. That was unlike their scribe.

"Gimli!" Gandalf cried, and Thorin barely thought before racing after his star, his heart beginning to pound. It wasn't... it couldn't be...

As he entered the chamber, his spirits sank into the pit of his belly. Yes, there was the white tomb, and there the shaft of thin daylight. There was the slumped skeleton, and there the book, smeared with blood. A hammer lay discarded on the floor, and the corpse of Grechar could be seen propped over the well.

"No," Gimli choked, falling to his knees before the white stone, and his eyes filling with tears once more. "No!"

Coming up behind him, Gandalf read the runes in a voice heavy with sorrow. "Here lies Balin, son of Fundin. He is dead, then. It's as I had feared."

Aragorn closed his eyes, and Boromir made a small sign over his breast. His strong face was creased with sympathy for the Dwarf who knelt at the foot of the tomb, his head resting against the white stone and his eyes clenched shut.

"I cannot..." Balin choked, and Thorin's hand shot out to hold Balin's shoulder in a hard, almost crushing grip.

"You will stay," he commanded in a harsh tone. "You will stay, as I did. You will see that you are mourned. You will know that you were loved."

"I cannot!" Balin cried, and Thorin whirled to take his face in his hands and shake his head roughly.

"You can and will! It hurts, I know – but you will grow around it and it will become a memory of love and not sorrow. I saw you weep for me – saw you all weep for me and my nephews, and I did not turn away! Do you not think I wished to?" His thumbs pressed into Balin's soft, curling beard. "All I saw was the destruction left in my wake. All I could see was the sorrow I left behind. It took eighty years for me to understand!"

"Thorin, let me go, damn you!" Balin howled, and Thorin gripped him harder, pressing their foreheads together and glaring into Balin's tear-ravaged eyes.

"No," he growled. "You will learn. This hurts, but it is necessary. Your passing hurts others, true – but you were loved. You were admired and respected and loved, Balin Fundinul. Do not reject it!"

Balin stared helplessly at him through the haze of his tears, and dimly Thorin heard Ori sigh.

"Well, there I am," he said. "Don't I make a good skeleton?"

"You stop that now," Óin said harshly. "You make as good a skeleton as I did a snack."

"Aye, and as I did an orc-pincushion," Thorin said to Balin, who finally slumped into Thorin's arms.

"Oh, laddie," he wept, and Thorin wrapped his arms around his dear friend and cousin and held on tightly.

Gimli's weeping slowed, and he touched the white stone with his powerful hands reverently. "Lord of Moria," he said, his booming voice wrecked and rasping. "Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal."

"Ach, Gimli, I am going to _clobber you_ ," Óin muttered, and he dashed at his eyes roughly. "However many thousands of years of secrecy, and you hand over lore and Khuzdul and who knows what else as easily as a child scatters pebbles..."

Thorin looked over the top of Balin's head. "You died bravely," he told Ori.

"I suppose," Ori said uncomfortably. "Poor Dróin was so terrified."

"As were you," Thorin said gravely. "You kept going. You gave them heart to make a stand."

Ori's chin rose. "I'm one of the Company," he said.

Thorin smiled, though he could feel that it was very strained. "I am proud to name you amongst them."

Ori's cheeks flushed a light pink, and he turned as Gandalf carefully took the book cradled in his skeletal arms. "Would you just _look_ at what those bloody orcs did to my book?" he said indignantly. "That's shameful, that is! Oooh, I would have done more than wallop them with a hammer if I'd known!"

Never mess with a librarian, Thorin thought with wry sadness. As Gandalf began to read the halting, disjointed tale of the colony, he turned his eyes back to Gimli. His star's light had dimmed, and his mouth was open in a soundless cry of grief.

As Gandalf read out the final fate of Óin, Gimli's eyes slid shut and two tears made deep furrows in the dust and grime on his face.

Aragorn placed a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, and Merry hovered, wringing his little hands. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Gimli," he murmured in a sad little voice. His normally mischievous face was unhappy and worried.

Legolas was eyeing Gimli warily, as though he was likely to explode. This fresh storm of grief seemed to _frighten_ the Elf. "We cannot stay here," he said urgently to Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded once, but stayed where he was, lending strength to the grieving Dwarf.

"I knew," Gimli whispered. "I knew. But I did not want to believe."

"Speak to him?" Óin pleaded.

Thorin sighed. "And what would you have me say?"

"He hears you, doesn't he?" Óin cried in anguish. "Say anything! Make this right!"

"Time is the only thing that can make it right," said Thorin. Turning back to Gimli, feeling Balin shake in his arms, he sighed again. "If anything can make it right."

"Give him some comfort, Thorin – please!" Óin begged. Thorin swallowed.

"I will try," he said. He gently urged Balin to lean against Ori, and then he crouched down beside his poor, sorrowing star. "Gimli, nahùba unday," he murmured. "Do not weep for the long-dead. Do not sorrow. We are here with you, and you are not alone."

Gimli showed no sign of hearing him.

"Have you lost your Gift?" said Ori in shock, and Thorin stood, his heart sinking even further into the pit of his belly.

"He cannot hear me," he said, his heart heavy and his lips numb. "All he can hear is his sorrow. Dís was thus, for a while. Again, time is the only healer." Oh, that hurt. That was the worst blow yet. Gimli had _always_ been able to hear him. Gimli was the safest place Thorin knew – and Gimli was lost. His star was out of reach.

"Poppycock," Óin snarled. "Try again!"

At that moment a thunderous crash sent everyone, living and dead, whirling to stare at Pippin Took.

"Oops," he said, his eyes wide and his face sheepish.

"Did he just throw Grechar down a well?" Ori demanded incredulously.

"This Hobbit is related to _Bilbo,_ " retorted Óin, and he ignored Thorin's sudden dark look. "He's goin' to do stupid things in spectacular fashion every now an' then."

"You will take that back," Thorin growled.

"One word, your majesty," Óin snapped. " _Trolls."_

Thorin couldn't really find any sort of retort to that. He settled for glowering at the apothecary.

"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" Gandalf said, snatching back his hat and staff and glaring at the youngest Hobbit. Pippin shrank back, before freezing in horror as a new sound began to flood the echoing deeps of the Mines, softly at first, but steadily growing in volume until the ancient stones seemed to rattle with it :

_Doom... doom..._

Ori's breath caught around a scream. "No!"

_Doom... doom, doom!_

"Mister Frodo!" Sam cried, and Frodo pulled Sting half-from its sheath to reveal the eerie blue glow.

_Doom, DOOM, DOOM!_

"We cannot get out!" Gimli said.

"Trapped, just as they were!" Gandalf said, and he turned to the door as he drew Glamdring. "Ah, but I was not here then."

Aragorn and Boromir were closing the shattered doors, bracing them with wood. A roar echoed through the Hall of Feast, and Boromir winced. "They have a cave-troll," he said sourly.

Gimli's face had kindled with a kind of madness as the drums rolled around the Mines, and he leapt onto the tomb and drew his axes, snarling, "let them come! There is one Dwarf yet in Moria who still draws blood!"

"Is that..." Óin said, his face falling.

"The battle-madness, aye," Balin covered his eyes. "No, no! This cannot be!"

Thorin stared at Gimli. His teeth glinted, bared in the thin and thready light, and his whole body seemed to swell with readiness as his muscles bunched. His fiery beard seemed nearly to bristle as he flicked his throwing axe in loose, vicious circles. Violence danced in his eyes, and his weight shifted from side to side as he waited impatiently, his feet planted on stone as a Dwarf should.

Legolas, bow drawn, glanced back at Gimli for a moment. His Elven eyes were wide and alert, but the same confusion of the night before still flickered in their depths.

"He feels everything," Thorin told the Elf hoarsely. _"To its utmost._ Gimli does nothing by halves. You would do well to remember that, Elf."

The doors rattled. _Doom-boom, doom-boom!_ sang the drums.

"Here they come," muttered Óin.

"Again," said Ori with dark sarcasm.

The drums shook the air, and the doors crashed open. Legolas let loose a volley of arrows, swifter than thought, and then goblins and the troll were upon them, howling and gibbering and roaring, and Gimli roared back.

Gimli whirled like a vortex of death, and his axes were faster than any Thorin had ever seen. Heads rolled, throats gushed blood, arms fell twitching to the floor. All the while Gimli's teeth were bared in a soundless snarl.

"Left!" Óin shouted. "No – _your_ left, my right! Now duck! Ach, duck faster! Now right! No – _your right!"_

The Elf dispatched the Cave-troll, but not before the beast managed to skewer Frodo with a spear. Thorin couldn't restrain the scream that burst out of him, and shamefully, all he could think of was Bilbo – Bilbo, to whom this young Hobbit was the sun.

"Frodo!" Aragorn hollered, and the Ringbearer slumped against the spear, his wide blue eyes shocked. Then he fell in a heap.

Slicing through the last goblin, Gandalf rushed forward. Aragorn turned the Hobbit over – and amazingly, Frodo _groaned._

"What's this?" Aragorn said in wonder. "You should be dead! That spear would have skewered a wild boar."

Thorin had a sneaking suspicion at that point, one which was soon confirmed when Frodo pulled down his shirt to show the unmistakable gleam of mithril beneath it.

"You are full of surprises, Master Baggins," Gimli said. His colour was high and his eyes snapped ferociously, glowing with the battle-madness. He seemed to be in tearing high spirits – and Thorin knew it to be a lie.

"Oh, Gimli," he said miserably. Óin slowly shook his head.

"That'll demand a price later," he said, his voice muted.

"Why must madness always follow our line?" Balin said bitterly.

Thorin made no answer.

"To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm," said Gandalf.

Gimli paused, and he touched the stone of Balin's tomb with his gauntleted hand. His eyes slid closed and his head bowed, and the elation of battle sloughed from him like a shed skin. Bone-deep, soul-deep grief seemed to radiate from him in buffeting waves.

"Come, Master Dwarf," Legolas said impatiently, and when Gimli would not, the Elf resorted to pulling at his huge arm. "Come! We cannot stay here – or there will be one more dead Dwarf in Moria!"

Gimli's eyelids snapped open and he glared at the Elf, who returned the glare without flinching. "Come, Master Dwarf!" he said again. "We must go!"

"My cousin," Gimli moaned, and Legolas' face softened.

"I am sorry," he said, tersely to be sure, but truthfully. He dragged at Gimli's arm again, though the Dwarf could not be budged. "But now we must leave him, or we will join him."

Gimli shook himself, and some of the madness and anguish fell from his eyes. "You are right," he said, and swallowed. "Lead on."

"This way!" Gandalf hollered, and he drew the Fellowship back out into the Hall of Feast. Orc-voices clamoured amongst the pillars, and the light upon his staff seemed small and frail as it bobbed amongst evil, glittering eyes and the huge, ancient stonework.

It could have been Thorin's imagination, but there was an inexorable hopelessness, a sense of inevitability in the Wizard's face as he led them on through the chittering, rustling darkness. The drums pounded and throbbed in the deeps and still the Wizard ran on, his mouth resigned and hard.

Then a new sound filled the air, sending a chilling, icy curl of horror racing up Thorin's spine.

Balin turned to him, and in his face was the answer that Thorin feared would be there.

"It's come," he said, his voice full of dread.

"What is this new devilry," Boromir whispered. The mighty man was tense and hoarse with fear.

"A Balrog," said Gandalf heavily. "A demon of the ancient world."

The snarl that echoed through the Hall of Feast sent Thorin's heart hammering in his mouth. He felt light-headed. "Durin's Bane," he breathed, and heard it echoed by Óin, Ori and Gimli.

Absurdly, that made him feel better. Gimli had heard him. The Balrog might kill them all, but it had snapped Gimli from his battle-madness and given him back to Thorin. "Run, nidoyel," he said, and Gimli's dwarf-boots pounded against the stone.

"He doesn't have speed on his side, true," said Balin, scowling at the Elf, "but he runs like he could charge through a wall."

The Hall opened up to a steep flight of stairs that shook with the beat of the drums. A chasm opened up between one step and another. "Jump!" Gandalf shouted, and Boromir and Legolas easily made it to the other side. Aragorn threw the terrified Hobbits across even as the ceiling groaned under the report of the monstrous beast that followed.

Aragorn turned to Gimli, who gave him an insulted look. "Nobody tosses a Dwarf," he growled, and bunched his thick legs before taking a running jump.

"He's not going to make it," Óin groaned.

"He made it!" Ori gasped.

"Not the beard!" Gimli howled, and Thorin winced at the indignity even as Balin bristled at the insult.

"He _touched Gimli's beard!"_ he snapped. "Gimli should take the damned Elf's hand for that!"

"It was his beard or his life," Thorin said shortly, and then Frodo and Aragorn were sent crashing into the others and they were racing, stumbling and panting, down to the Fourth Level.

"The Bridge," puffed Ori. "There!"

Ahead, the Unending Chasm yawned, and there stood the Bridge of Khazad-dûm; a single curving spring of stone without rail or kerb. At the brink Gandalf halted, his breath rattling his chest. "Lead them on, Aragorn!" he rasped.

The Man paused, his eyes questioning, but Gandalf shooed him on with a sweep of his staff. "Go, I say! Swords are no more use here! This is a foe beyond any of you. I must hold the narrow way."

Aragorn's brows drew together, but he turned and began to lead the Fellowship onwards.

"Gandalf, what-" Thorin began.

"Not _now,_ Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf snapped, and he loosened his arms and turned back to face the foot of the stair.

"Oh, Mahal save us," Balin faltered, even as a great billowing cloud began to surge through the shadows.

"Ai! Ai!" Legolas wailed. "A Balrog! A Balrog is come!"

Gimli stared with wide eyes as the smoke swirled through the air, coalescing around a nightmare of flames. He covered his face with his hands, and his axe fell and clattered to the ground.

"Pick up that axe, son of Glóin!" Thorin barked, and Gimli fumbled for it reflexively. "Properly, you fool – you will cut your own fingers. Take up arms!"

Gimli took up his axe and held it close to his chest. The huge muscles of his arms were tensed, pressing against his mail. Thorin could see the whites of his eyes.

One massive foot, shadows and flames intermingled, stepped onto the Bridge. Gandalf turned to the beast, his face twisted with effort and anger. "You cannot pass," he grated.

The Balrog snarled, whip cracking in its foul paw. Flames licked and rippled across its chest.

"I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun!" Gandalf bellowed, and he began to shine like a star in the darkness. He was a tiny figure before the monstrosity of the Balrog, whose wings reached from one side of the cavern to the other.

"He cannot hold it against such evil!" Balin choked.

"No," Thorin said wildly. "No, he cannot." _And he knew it all along._

"Bloody wizards!" Óin howled.

Gandalf's voice was grim. "Go back to the Shadow!" he spat, and the Balrog roared offense and smashed its fiery sword down upon the small, glowing figure. Ori, Pippin and Frodo cried out in shock as flames engulfed the Wizard, and Balin's fingers were pressed into Thorin's forearm painfully.

The white glow of the Wizard steadily shone out from beneath the flames, and Gandalf stood upright: bloodied and weary, but unbowed. "You shall not pass!" he roared, and slammed his staff down against the bridge. There was a flash of light.

The Balrog snorted, and took another step forward – and then the ancient stone of the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, unbroken since the days before the creation of the Sun and the Moon, cracked down the middle where Gandalf's staff touched it and crumbled away beneath the monster's feet. Roaring, howling, flames licking at the stone, the Balrog fell into the chasm. Its shadow plunged down and vanished.

"He did it! He did it! He bloody went and killed Durin's Bane!" Óin gibbered wildly, jumping up and down on the spot. "Bloody wizards! I could kiss him!"

"Don't," said Ori in a faint and wobbly voice. "No-one needs to see that."

Gandalf sighed, his shoulders heaving and drooping with weariness. He turned to make his way back along the bridge towards the Fellowship, and the crack of a whip sounded out. The fiery thongs of the Balrog's whip had caught him around the knees.

"Gandalf!" Frodo shrieked in horror, and Aragorn caught him around the waist and held him back.

The Wizard was dragged to the brink, his staff and sword clattering over the edge as he clawed desperately for a hand-hold upon the stone of the Bridge. He found one and scrabbled vainly at it for a moment as he dangled. "Fly, you fools!" he cried, and then he was gone.

* * *

_TBC.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Sindarin_**  
>  Nogoth - Dwarf  
> Dôl gîn lost – Your head is empty  
> Gwaem – Let's go  
> Goheno nin – Forgive me  
> Iston – I know
> 
>  _ **Khuzdul**_  
>  Mizùl - Good luck  
> Adùruth – Mourning  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Zesulel – (the) alone of alone  
> Ayamuhud – blessings upon  
> Âkminrûk zu – Thank you  
> Nekhushîn – sorrow-place  
> Balakhûn – power-man  
> Khulel – Peace of peace  
> Khathuzhâl – The Endurer  
> Nahùba - heroic  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Khuthûzh - Elves  
> Zûr zu? – how are you?  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'adad – father  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Shazara – silence  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Barufûn – family (man)  
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal (formal farewell)
> 
> The Song of Khazad-dûm is sung by Gimli in the chapter, 'A Journey in the Dark.' Some lines taken from the book and the movie.
> 
> _Thank you so much! Every single review really makes me smile, especially when work is so nasty. :D I really appreciate your support. You lovely folks!_
> 
> _As always, my love to persianslipper, who is The Best. And my eternal awe to the Dwarrow Scholar._


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Alrís daughter of Gerís_
> 
>  
> 
> A tanner. Poor, but optimistic, Alrís adores being a mum, and loves every bit of her enormous brood. She's very jolly and thoroughly competent, and very rarely gets angry or overwrought despite her poverty and her growing family. Her planning skills are second to none, and she is Arda's champion multitasker. This is not surprising, as she has twelve children with her husband Bombur. She is a bustling Dwarrowdam with brown hair and green eyes and a dimpled, cheery smile, and usually at least one child in the crook of her arm. She sings and hums constantly as she works, and her children have all gained a love of music from her.
> 
> * * *

Kíli watched in bemusement. Certainly he'd been a little... impulsive at times. But this took the cake. In fact, it took the whole bakery.

"Oh come on! We could take him!" said Gimizh, his dark red hair falling into his eyes.

Wee Thorin (who at thirty-seven wasn't so wee anymore) rolled his eyes. "Gimizh, he's a messenger of _Mordor._ Who knows what he's capable of?"

"I thought you were gonna be a great warrior an' that?" challenged Gimizh. Wee Thorin folded his arms and gave the younger Dwarfling a long stare.

"I _am_ a great warrior," he said gruffly. "My Pa's Dwalin Fundinul."

"Pfft, my 'adad's a miner and he could sing your Pa under the table," Gimizh retorted, and the two Dwarflings scuffled for a moment before Gimizh yelped.

"Let that be a lesson t' you," Wee Thorin said, sticking his scruffy chin out. "Nobody beats my Pa."

"My uncle could," sulked Gimizh, holding his head.

Wee Thorin's lips pursed. Kíli took that to mean that Thorin knew very well that Gimli had outstripped his famous father, but didn't want to admit it.

"Well, if we're not going to fight him, can't we go up and see?" Gimizh said sullenly, still rubbing at his head. His cheeks were still bare as an egg, but he had a great shaggy mop of hair on his head that reminded Kíli of Glóin, though Bofur habitually braided it into pigtails like his own.

  


_Gimizh son of Bofur, by[Flukeoffate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/75009114681/gimizh-is-apparently-my-muse-today-gimizh)._

"We're not goin' to fight him," said Wee Thorin firmly. "Come on, pick up your chalk."

"Don't want to."

"You have to do your lessons, Gimizh. I heard your uncle knew these histories by the time he was twenty!"

Gimizh's head snapped up. "Did he really?"

"Aye, an' you're twenty-five already." Wee Thorin's eyes twinkled with youthful cunning. His hair still stood up in a fierce shock not unlike Dwalin's old Mohawk, though he had gained the dark eyes and skin of Orla. Of his three brothers, he was the tallest, though his middle brother Balin had the most strength, and the youngest, the toddling Frerin, had Dwalin's massive hands and arms. "Can you interpret this bit?"

Gimizh glanced over it, and then he folded his arms and tossed his chin into the air. "S' cirth."

"They're all cirth, dimwit," Wee Thorin growled. "What does it say?"

"I want to fight the stupid messenger!"

"Wrong. It says, 'At the Battle of Dagorlad, Drór smashed the Chief Orc's head in with a battle-axe'."

"Drór's got some good ideas." Gimizh glowered. He had quite a fine Durin glower. "Why can't we go see? I want to see."

Wee Thorin sighed. "You're not going to concentrate on your lessons until we go and gawk, are you?"

Gimizh shook his head stubbornly, his curved and protruding plaits swinging.

Wee Thorin rubbed his eyes, and then sighed again. "All right."

Gimizh jerked, and then he whooped loudly.

"But!" Wee Thorin held up a finger. "You have to promise to do your lessons afterwards, or your mother will yell at me."

Gimizh nodded quickly. "Promise. Mithril-true promise, may I be shaved like a Man if I break it. Come on, let's go!"

"Ooooh, not good," Kíli murmured, and bit down on his lip as the two Dwarflings scurried from the room to the upper levels overlooking the battlements. He followed with a sinking feeling, and absently wondered if Thorin had ever felt like this, watching over Fíli and himself.

Probably.

How depressing.

"Move, I can't see!" Gimizh hissed.

"Not my fault you're a shrimp," Wee Thorin snapped, but he made room for his smaller cousin anyway. Gimizh peered over the edge of the archer's sconce with great big brown eyes, his mouth a perfect little 'o'.

"Not too far, they'll see you," Wee Thorin said, clamping a hand into Gimizh's belt and hauling him back. Gimizh poked his tongue out, and leaned straight back over the sill. From below, the Dwarf-Lords and the messenger would be able to spot his red hair from a mile away.

"Was I ever this stupid?" Kíli demanded of the air, and then he winced. "Mahal, am I glad no-one is around to answer that..."

"Who's that there?" wondered Gimizh, and Wee Thorin snorted.

"That's the _King,_ dimwit."

"Oh. Wow, his hair and beard are really big and white – bigger even than grandpa's." Gimizh squinted down at him, and then he brightened. "I could drop a pebble right on his head from here."

Wee Thorin and Kíli gaped in unison. "They named you well, wild one," muttered Kíli. "Drop a pebble on the King!"

"Are you crazy?" Wee Thorin demanded, and then his next words had Kíli attempting to knock himself unconscious against the stone of Erebor's walls; "use a wood-block, a pebble's too hard from this height, even for a Dwarf's head."

"Bet it wouldn't hurt my uncle," mumbled Gimizh, and he fumbled in his pocket for one of the blocks he used for wood-carving (Bofur was teaching him). "Bet it'd just bounce off."

"It'd certainly bounce off yours!" Kíli nearly shrieked. "Are you seriously going to drop a wood-block on the _King_ while he fends off a _messenger of Mordor?!"_

"You need a steadier hand than that," scoffed Wee Thorin, and he took the wood-block off Gimizh. Gimizh squawked and reached for it again, but Wee Thorin fended him off by simply placing one hand against the smaller lad's forehead and holding him at arm's length.

"I hate you," Gimizh snarled.

"You got what you wanted, din't you?" Wee Thorin snapped back. "We can see the messenger."

"He's not even really frightening. Just a big black bundle of rags. Bet I could take him."

"Bet your stink'd knock him off his horse, you mean," Wee Thorin sniggered, and the two scuffled again. Predictably, Gimizh came off worse once more.

"Hate you _so much,"_ he moaned, rubbing his little leg and hopping up and down.

"Aye, I know, little cousin," Wee Thorin grinned. It was Dwalin's rare sharklike grin. "Now, are we dropping this on the King or not?"

Gimizh leaned over the sill again (Kíli's breath caught and he groaned loudly). "Aunt Dís is down there, and Mum," he said dubiously. "It might bounce off and hit them."

"Thank you!" Kíli shouted, throwing his hands up. "Some sense at last! Argh, I am apologising to Thorin every day for a _year_ after this!"

"You saying I can't hit him properly?" Wee Thorin puffed up his chest like a bullfrog in indignation, and Kíli wanted to weep.

"You wanna take the chance that it hits Aunt Dís?" Gimizh pointed out, and Wee Thorin's dark face blanched a little.

"Uh..."

"Oh, thank Mahal and all of the Seven fathers," Kíli wheezed and clutched at his chest.

"She won't know it was us," Wee Thorin said dubiously - and at that point someone roughly cleared their throat. The two Dwarflings and Kíli shrieked in surprise and whirled around to the stairwell.

Dwalin was standing there, his scarred and tattooed eyebrows raised and his glass eye shining like retribution.

Kíli, Gimizh and Wee Thorin gulped.

"You two idiots do know that from up here the whole bloody Mountain can hear you, an' that red hair is like a bloody flag," Dwalin growled. The tone of voice was so familiar that Kíli reflexively began to cringe – before remembering that for once, _he_ wasn't one of the idiots in question.

Gimizh began to gnaw on his lip, opting to hold his tongue and close his eyes tightly. Wee Thorin was wiser, and hung his head. "Sorry, Pa."

"Not yet, you're not," Dwalin said ominously. "You two: Get. I'll be talkin' to your 'amad later, young Gimizh, you mark m' words."

Gimizh's big brown eyes snapped open, filled with panic. "Oh no!" he whimpered.

Dwalin's good eye glittered. "Oh aye. An' I might just make mention o' this to your uncle when he returns if it should happen again."

Gimizh's ruddy head whipped up, protest written all over his small face. At the sight of Dwalin's expression, however, he deflated and slunk away.

Kíli rubbed at his forehead and let out a long, explosive breath. Perhaps he should make Thorin something nice.

Probably Balin too.

Maybe something for his mother, for when she finally entered the Halls. And Dwalin. And Bilbo too, to apologise for all the silly stories and teasing. Grandmother as well. Oh, and he'd seriously annoyed his great-grandfather Thrór last week, and Nori wasn't speaking to him because he'd ruined Ori's new ink before it had cured.

Would Fíli have any ideas? Oh now, wait - Fee was annoyed with him for breaking his gemcutter's eyeglass.

Oh, Durin's beard _,_ he was going to be crafting from now until the mending of the bloody _world_.

* * *

Gandalf was gone, and the drums thudded and throbbed in the air. Frodo's cries were a shrill and sorrowful descant, all accompanied by the rasp of breath as the Fellowship tore through the empty and desolate Mines. The hiss and zing of arrows stung their ears.

Thorin raced after them, shouting out Ori's directions. Behind him, Náli, Lóni and Frár had shimmered into the darkness of Arda, and their faces were grim and determined.

"Left here!" Lóni said tightly, and Thorin relayed it. Gimli swerved dutifully, and at the rear of the party Aragorn fought off the encroaching Orcs with terrifying savagery. His teeth were bared in a grimace of pain.

" _Spin_ that axe,  azaghâl, do not choke it!" Náli snapped, his old drillmaster's tone sharp and scolding. He watched in approval as Gimli dispatched a pair of chittering goblins with aplomb. "My best student, don't y'know," he said to no-one in particular.

"Not the time, Náli!" Lóni hollered.

"The doors are ahead," Frár said in his deep voice. His hand was clutched around Lóni's tightly as they ran after the Fellowship, and he would not look at the corpses scattered around the East-Gate. Thorin abruptly remembered that it was here at the East-gate that these Dwarves had fallen, and Balin himself had died only a scant few hundred feet beyond, at the shores of Kheled-zâram.

"Go, my star!" he roared. "The East-gate lies ahead! Do not stop!"

Gimli let out a choked sob as he pounded ahead of the rest, his heavy boots ringing against stone and his axes dripping. The golden sheen of sunlight was beginning to edge the darkness.

"How do you know the way?" demanded Boromir, his sword cleaving an orc nearly to the navel.

"Must be mine-sign again," wheezed Merry.

"Oh Hobbits - gullible!" Ori panted. "Take the second fork – I can see daylight!"

"Ahead – the second fork!" Thorin bit out, and Gimli yanked his axe from an orc's skull with a mighty pull, gore spattering the ground. He shouted wordlessly to the Fellowship and began to charge for the second fork of the tunnel, the Hobbits and the Elf following on fleet and noiseless feet.

"How can anyone read signs with all this hullabaloo?" Sam gasped. "I can't see which way is up!"

"I can see light!" Legolas called, a note of wild joy in his voice.

"Don't talk; run!" shouted Aragorn, and he launched with a cry at a great orc-captain who, along with a small guard detail, was barring their way. Such was the terrifying ferocity of his wrath that many of the orcs screeched and fled, only to be cut down by Boromir, Gimli and the white knives of Legolas.

"Very nice," said Náli grudgingly. "Could have used a bit less o' that dancing Elvish footwork though. Just showing off, t' my mind."

Finally they came stumbling out of the darkness and blinked in the sudden sunlight. The sky was a huge vaulted roof of grey-blue, and the wind on their faces made Sam and Legolas gasp and shudder with relief.

Looking back, Thorin saw the glitter of orc-eyes recede into the yawning darkness. _Boom, doom,_ rolled the drums, echoing and mocking, making the earth beneath their feet shudder. Sam slumped to the ground and began to weep quietly, and Pippin threw himself into Merry's arms and sobbed into his lap.

"I will go back!" Gimli cried, rage contorting his face. "I will find him, and..."

"No, Gimli!" Thorin shouted, and he was echoed by Boromir. The Man caught Gimli around his barrel-chest and held on tightly, though he had no hope of holding a Dwarf using his full strength.

"You cannot go back," the Captain of Gondor said hoarsely. "It is folly. We would not lose you too, doughty warrior."

"Unkhash – oh, Tharkûn, Tharkûn!" Gimli howled, and then he fell into a heap and pulled his helm from his head, burying his face in his hands.

The Elf's eyes were luminous and shocked. He did not seem to know how to deal with his own sorrow, and gazed about himself with a strange and lost air of horror.

Thorin looked out upon the Dimrill Dale, the once-fair Azanulbizar, and found that it had barely changed. There, the place he had picked up a fallen oak branch and swung it wildly. There, where Dain-the-child had made his stand and lost his leg. There, where his grandfather's blood had soaked through to the bedrock. There, where Frerin's body had been found. There, where the bonfire had blazed, half a dozen feet high, while the wounded screamed in hastily-erected tents. "This place is cursed," he muttered to himself. 

"Legolas, get them up," Aragorn said. Loss coloured his voice and made it rasp harshly.

Boromir was hunched over Gimli's prone form, and his face was ravaged. "Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" he cried.

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs!" Aragorn retorted. "We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli. Get them up." He bent and took the arm of Sam, who was red-faced and sniffling. "On your feet, Sam," he said as gently as he could.

"Lothlórien," repeated Óin, and he shuddered. "No!"

"Yonder is the Dimrill Stair," said Lóni quietly. "Over there is the Mirrormere."

"Deep Kheled-zâram," rasped Thorin, and he rubbed at his mouth.

"I remember he said: 'May you have joy of the sight!'" Gimli croaked, and he looked out over the Dale with red-rimmed eyes. "And ach – look, there is Durin's Stone."

Frodo turned and looked up at Aragorn. The numb shock on his face was giving way to something deeper and darker and full of desolation. "Give him this," he said fiercely.

Legolas glanced at the golden tops of the nearby trees with longing. "But..."

Frodo set his jaw. His great blue eyes were wells of absolute despair. "Give him – and me – this," he said, his teeth snapping the words.

"Tolo, Legolas," Aragorn said quietly. "Let them go."

Legolas' fine jaw rippled as he swallowed. "Boe? Am man theled, Aragorn? Man tôg hí?"

Aragorn's eyes hardened. "Farn, mellon nin. Farn."

Frodo turned on his heel and immediately walked over to Gimli, speaking to him quietly and touching his thick arm. Gimli looked at him with desolate eyes and bowed his head, and together the two walked slowly over to where a great paved way had obviously once stood, though it was largely ruined and overgrown.

"What of the orcs you spoke of? We should not linger here," Boromir said in an undertone.

"We have daylight enough to protect us," Aragorn said, before glancing around at the weeping Hobbits. "And sorrow is a heavy burden."

"Thorin," said Balin hoarsely. "They go to Mirrormere."

"They do," Thorin said, inclining his head and giving his old friend a steady look. "Do you stay, Balin?"

The sleek maned head dropped for a moment, before Balin sighed and met Thorin's eyes again. "I stay," he said reluctantly. "But I will not go to those waters."

"I will," said Lóni, and Frár nodded beside him.

"Try an' stop me," snorted Náli. Lóni rolled his eyes at his irascible old instructor.

"I'll leave, if you'll excuse me," Ori said, and he looked back at the gaping broken east-doors and sighed unhappily. "I'll send another."

"Aye," Thorin said, before looking sternly over to Óin. "You too, gamil bâhûn. You have stayed in those darksome tunnels far too long. Take your rest."

Óin snorted, though his eyes slid away from Thorin's. "If _I've_ been here too long, _you're_ in danger of becomin' a fixture."

"My duty and my privilege," Thorin said, and he tried to steel himself around the aching emptiness inside as Óin and Ori faded from his side. Gandalf was gone. The grey wizard, old and gruff and powerful, gnarled as an old tree and strong as a mountain, was fallen.

No more would the sharp blue eyes flicker to him in irritation or acknowledgement, or that strange and unexpected compassion. No more would the scratchy old voice offer that infuriatingly opaque wisdom, the calm and gentle comfort, or ring out in that clarion call of righteous rage. Thorin squeezed his own eyes shut for a moment, before he stubbornly pushed his grief away. Gandalf himself had said that death was only another path.

Gimli and Frodo clambered up to the side of the great standing stone and looked down over the sheltered valley. Thorin, Balin, Lóni, Frár and Náli followed at a respectful distance, and Lóni ghosted his hand over the surface of the monolith, his eyes distant. The stone itself was cracked and worn, and the ancient runes on its side were weathered so that they could no longer be read.

"This is where Durin himself once stood," Gimli said, his voice cracking. "This is where the father of all my fathers bent his head and looked into the waters of Kheled-zâram."

"Did you want to...?" Frodo said, his own light Hobbit-voice rasping.

"Aye," Gimli said after a long and heavy silence. He slowly moved to his knees and bent over the dark waters, and after a moment Frodo joined him.

At first the dark pool revealed nothing. And then, just as in the waters of Gimlîn-zâram, the darkness parted. The shapes of the surrounding mountains were mirrored against the sheen of the waters, framing a sky that was an aching and yearning blue. There were sunk seven glittering stars against that blue eternity, like drowned heavenly jewels. They span and dazzled against the deep, though the sun was high and no stars shone in the sky above them.

With a flash of understanding, Thorin realised that this pool, deep Kheled-zâram, was but a pale reflection of the greater profundity of starry Gimlîn-zâram in the Halls of Mahal.

"Magnificent," Lóni spoke softly. "Worth dying for, surely." Frár took his hand and kissed the palm.

"Ghivasha. No wonder of this world, not even the Crown of Durin, was worth your life," he said quietly. The taller Dwarrow glanced down at Frár, let out a bitter gust of breath and then turned back to where Gimli stood with Frodo.

[ ](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/75240810172/loni-and-frar-from-determamfidds-epic-tolkien)

  


_Lóni and Frár, by[hhavenh](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/75240810172/loni-and-frar-from-determamfidds-epic-tolkien)._

"O Kheled-zâram fair and wonderful," Gimli murmured. "There lies the Crown of Durin till he wakes."

"It is beautiful, Gimli," Frodo said, and a tear fell from his eye to ripple the surface of the water.

"Aye, it is." Gimli straightened and looked up at the glowering peak of Caradhras, looming behind them. His mouth twisted for a moment, and then he mastered himself. "Thank you for coming with me t' see it."

As he led the Hobbit down the sides of the causeway, Frodo placed his hand upon Gimli's shoulder once more and held on tightly as though the Dwarf were the only solid thing in Arda. Misery welled in his eyes.

"Strength to you, Frodo Baggins," whispered Thorin, and he heard it echoed by Frár and Lóni. "Strength to you, Ringbearer."

As the pair rejoined the Fellowship, Legolas stood upon a lofty outcrop of rock and shaded his eyes. "There is the spring of the Nimrodel," he said. "We must turn to the South."

They turned towards the golden trees with heavy dragging steps, and Lóni let out a sigh.

"Well, we're free of it, no matter what happens next."

Thorin glanced back at the tall Dwarrow with a sardonic expression. "What happens next is _Elves."_

Frár pulled a face as Lóni flinched. "Ah."

Náli grumbled to himself in Khuzdul all the way from the foothills to the plain before the golden eaves until Balin finally told him to shut up.

"Thank Durin," Lóni muttered.

The sudden silence made Thorin aware of whispering to his right, and he turned to see the two young Hobbits close together. He frowned and bent to listen.

"...all my fault!" Pippin was whispering to Merry, his fingers twisting in each other and his knuckles white. "If I hadn't been so curious..."

What was this? Thorin moved closer to the youngest of the Fellowship, and his heart sank even further (if that were possible) at Pippin's guilty and grief-ridden expression.

"You didn't kill him, Pip!" Merry exclaimed under his breath. "You can't know that. Maybe the orcs would have found us anyway. Not like you hung a sign around his neck or anything!"

"But I roused the whole of Moria with that silly well," Pippin said, his lip trembling. "I did – no one else! Me, the fool of a Took!"

"Oh no," Thorin said, and he sighed. "Oh, tender little Halfling. You could not have protected Gandalf against the horrors of Durin's Bane."

He raised his head to look about for Gimli, and spotted him trudging along beside Frodo still, their heads bowed in the rosy light of sunset. "My star, the Hobbits-" he began, but then he was interrupted from an unexpected quarter.

"No, little one," said Boromir gently. "Raise your spirits and smile again. You were not the author of Gandalf's fall. Those Halls have long been the haunt of evil things, and who is to say we would have passed unnoticed, your unfortunate well or no?"

Pippin turned his face up to the Man, his cheeks wet. "But, I..." he faltered.

Boromir tousled Pippin's curly head. "He was fond of your Tookish spirit, little one," he said. "Don't let the cold of that place steal all your laughter."

"Aye," croaked Balin, and he looked up to meet Thorin's eyes. "Aye, we cannot allow that place to steal more of our spirit."

Thorin gave him a small, encouraging smile. "That is true."

Balin took in a deep, shuddering breath, before exhaling slowly, his chest rising and falling. Then he tipped back his head and stood straighter. "I will not let it steal mine any longer," he said half to himself.

"Good," Thorin said firmly, and then he turned back to Pippin. "And nor should you, little Bullroarer," he murmured to Pippin's hopeful, miserable face, recalling all of Bilbo's fanciful tales. "Child of adventurers, Gandalf gave his life to save your company. Do not make his choice into your failing."

"I just wish I'd never..." Pippin blurted, and then he jammed his fingers into his mouth to stop his words.

"Thrown Grechar down the well?" Balin finished, and there was a note of his old humour back in his voice. Thorin could have cried with gratitude to hear it.

He threw an appraising look at Boromir as the sun slowly slid back over the peaks of the Misty Mountains. "You have learned different lessons than I," he mused. "I did not learn the value of compassion until far too late. Perhaps you will not be bound to the same fate; the doom that awaits those who fear for their folk above all else, and forget to live."

Oh, he hoped so. Boromir was far too mighty and far too good a Man – too good a _person_ – to succumb to the Shadow.

As they entered the forest, Gimli became more edgy and silent and his eyes flicked this way and that. They passed a rushing stream that Legolas lingered beside, his fair face longing and wistful. "Here is Nimrodel!" he said. "The Elves of the North made many songs about this stream long ago, and in Mirkwood we sing them yet."

Gimli's dark eyes snapped up to the Elf, and a sneer tugged the edge of his lips. Instead of speaking, he bent to lighting a fire. Night was drawing close.

"Orcs will not dare enter these woods," Aragorn told them in his quiet authoritative voice. "Rest easy!"

"I'll not be resting easily here," Gimli muttered to himself, and he glared at the trees with a trace of his dark sorrow still lingering in the corners of his mouth and in the tightness around his eyes. "Not under these cursed trees."

At length a silence fell and they could all hear the music of the waterfall running sweetly in the shadows. Then the silence was broken by the lilting voice of the Elf, raised over the rushing waters and almost seeming to blend with it:

[[The Lay of Nimrodel, performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66847900759/the-fifth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this-is-from)]

An Elven-maid there was of old,  
A shining star by day:  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,  
A light was on her hair  
As sun upon the golden boughs  
In Lorien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
And fair she was and free;  
And in the wind she went as light  
As leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
By water clear and cool,  
Her voice as falling silver fell  
Into the shining pool.

Where now she wanders none can tell,  
In sunlight or in shade;  
For lost of yore was Nimrodel  
And in the mountains strayed.

There was more, but Thorin stopped listening. Instead, he found it more interesting to watch the face of Gimli as the Elf sang softly to the sweet chill waters. His fierce star was weighted down with his great grief, but he did not yet stagger underneath it, though he had come close. His heavy shoulders gradually slumped as the tension bled from them. The strain in his eyes and brow smoothed out as Legolas' voice soared over their Fellowship, and his eyelids slid shut as he leaned back and let out a soft breath.

Then Legolas broke off, his mouth tight. "I cannot sing any more," he said. "That is but a part, for I have forgotten much. It is long and sad, for it tells how sorrow came upon Lothlórien, Lórien of the Blossom, when the Dwarves awakened evil in the mountains."

Gimli's eyes flew open, and he fixed the Elf with a resentful glare. "But the Dwarves did not make the evil!"

Legolas sighed imperceptibly, his narrow and slender chest falling. "I said not so, yet evil came," he answered sadly.

Thorin gritted his teeth, but Balin and Lóni frowned. "Wait," said Lóni slowly. "Did the Elf just...?"

"That was almost... diplomatic," said Balin in a puzzled tone. "What in Durin's name?"

Abruptly Thorin remembered Legolas' conversation with Aragorn, and his eyebrows shot up. "Does the Elvish Princeling actually consider another's point of view? Will wonders never cease?"

Gimli pursed his lips but he did not immediately react to Thorin's sarcastic prodding. Instead he turned to Pippin and Merry. "Stay close, young Hobbits. They say a great sorceress lives in these woods. An Elf-witch of terrible power. All who look on her fall under her spell, and are never heard of again!"

Balin winced, and Lóni groaned. "Uh. Gimli was never very diplomatic himself," he said helplessly. "His usual method of problem-solving involves an axe, a tankard of ale, or both."

Thorin snorted. "I remember."

Lóni blinked, and then he grimaced, his ears reddening. "Oh."

Náli chuckled coarsely. "The looks on your faces."

"That was downright rude of him, though," Frár said. "Insulting another's leader in their own land!"

"I thought it was direct and to the point," Thorin said, and Balin gave him a long-suffering look full of old exasperation.

"You _would."_

Thorin glared.

"My undiplomatic king," Balin added with wry warmth. "Sword half-drawn and foot firmly in mouth."

"Where has all your respect gone?" Thorin grumbled, and Balin laughed. It was sad and stiff, but it was a true laugh.

"I suspect I left it behind in Moria and darkness, laddie." He shook his head again. "Perhaps I did not appreciate Dáin enough in life."

Glancing back at the Elf's stiff and offended face, Thorin had to admit that perhaps they had a point. "Gimli," he began, but he was once more interrupted, this time by Gimli's deep grunt.

"Well, here's one Dwarf she won't ensnare so easily," he said mulishly.

"The Dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him in the dark," came a new voice, silky and superior. Gimli shot up as an arrow thrust itself directly at his nose, and Thorin bellowed in outrage as more arrows were levelled at the Hobbits and the Men.

Gimli glowered as the newcomers revealed themselves as tall and golden Elves. The leader looked down his nose at the Dwarf, his expression cold and impassive and yet somehow full of utter distaste.

Then the Elf turned to Legolas and his eyes widened imperceptibly. "Legolas Thranduilion, well-met,," he said and arched his head in a graceful bow.

Legolas inclined his head in return, distant, unreachable and just as cold. All of Thorin's initial dislike for the Elf came flooding back. How could he have thought that the son of Thranduil could change? "Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien," Legolas replied, and there was no difference in him from the arrogant and aloof creature he had first seen in the gardens of Rivendell.

This Elf was unchanged from the one who had sneered at Thorin and threatened his life.

"Elves! All the same!" he spat, and Balin muttered a curse beneath his breath before raising his voice hastily.

"Wait, Thorin," he said. "Wait before you lose your temper this time!"

"Does Balin have better luck arguing with the weather, do you suppose?" sighed yet _another_ voice, and Thorin pressed his lips together as his mother walked up behind him and tweaked his ear. "Behave,  inùdoy," she said. "You are tired and full of sorrow, and your temper gets away from you."

"Are you here to take Ori's place, my lady?" asked Frár respectfully, and Frís smiled.

"Mostly I am here to convince my son to take his rest, but I will stay for a while longer. I believe Nori and Gróin plan to take the next watch."

"Hnh," Thorin grunted, and his mother tweaked his ear again.

"Thorinîth, stop that," she said sharply. Then she turned to the Elves who were arguing with Legolas and Aragorn in that birdsong language, and her eyebrows lowered. "What's this?"

"Gandalf fell," Thorin told her, and his throat closed. She left his ear and her hand settled on his shoulder, rubbing soothingly.

"I know. The Halls are filled with the songs of mourning," she said, and bowed her head, her blue eyes sombre. "Where did Aragorn lead them?"

"This is Lothlórien," Balin said darkly, and her breath caught for a moment before her chin rose.

"Ah. And all these Elves make already thin tempers stretch even thinner, I see."

"If they would only stop using those piping bird-noises instead of a real tongue-!" Thorin growled, and Gimli growled too.

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves," he grumbled. "Speak words we can all understand!"

Frís turned to her son with a censorious look, and he winced as she reached for his ear once more.

The leader of the new Elves gave the assembled Fellowship a graceful bow. "I am Haldir," he said, "March-warden of the Golden Wood. We have heard rumours of your passing, and then upon the waters of the Nimrodel we heard your song and knew you to be one of our Northern kindred. If you will vouch for them, Prince, we will lead you through our land, though it is not our custom. How many are you?"

"Eight," said Legolas. "Myself, four Hobbits and two Men. And the Dwarf."

"Last and least," Frís said and rolled her eyes to the twilit sky. "No-one is exactly covering themselves with glory, are they?"

"We have not had dealings with Dwarves since the dark days," said Haldir, his lip curling the slightest amount as he looked down upon Gimli once more.

"And do you know what this Dwarf says to that!" Gimli bristled, and then he ground out a stream of snapping, percussive Khuzdul.

Náli tipped his head, and his eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Now _that_ is a fightin' insult." Then he puffed up his chest. "I taught him that, y'know. One o' my best."

Frár winced, and Lóni clapped his hands over his mouth as he eyed his best friend in horror. "Oh, you rogue, Gimli, you great redheaded wretch," he groaned. "I should tan your hide and use it for a rug, for you certainly don't care a whit for it! Do you _want_ a bushel of arrows between your ears? Mahal knows there's plenty of room!"

"Oh no," Balin moaned. "Not _more secrets!_ Gimli, I will snatch out your beard!"

Thorin barely even heard the insult, so incensed was he. "They are not permitted in this land," Haldir said over the uproar, his eyes frosty. "I cannot allow him to pass."

"But he is from the Lonely Mountain, one of Dáin's trusty folk!" Frodo cried, and he was echoed by Merry, Sam and Pippin. "Elrond himself chose him to be part of our company, and he has been brave and faithful, even when the road turned crueller for him than for anyone else!"

Haldir looked over at Legolas, who was holding himself very tall and straight, and arched an elegant eyebrow. "Do you vouch for him?"

Legolas hesitated. Gimli's mouth dropped open momentarily, before hurt flooded his face and he began to snarl, "of course he doesn't! I am a Dwarf, am I not? I cannae grow points on my ears, nor three feet in height, nor suddenly live forever, and so I all I have done for this Fellowship and all I have lost is as _nothing_!"

Legolas stiffened. "I vouch for him."

As one, every Dwarf in the clearing turned to gape at the son of Thranduil.

"You what...?" Gimli said blankly.

Haldir looked equally as surprised, but he rallied magnificently. "Very well, he may pass. But his eyes must be blindfolded in the Naith of Lórien, for we do not permit stone-grubbers to set foot there. Indeed, he has come further than we would have allowed, had we known he was amongst you."

Gimli's teeth gritted. "I will not walk blindfold like a beggar or common prisoner," he said in a low, angry voice. His shoulders swelled hugely beneath his brigandine as he bunched them in readiness. "I am no spy! My folk have never had dealings with any of the servants of the Enemy. Neither have we done any harm to Elves! I am no more likely to betray you than Legolas here!"

Haldir turned his eyes back to Legolas, who no longer looked cool and unknowable. Rather, the Elf appeared rather frustrated. "Master Dwarf," he said through clenched teeth, and pinched his nose.

"Aye, a Dwarf, and that is the problem, isn't it?" Gimli said hotly. "Go, I will not stomach it! I will not be blindfolded and led like a pet for no other reason than what I am!"

"Master Dwarf," Legolas tried again, and Gimli growled low and deep.

"My name is _Gimli,_ son of Glóin," he rumbled dangerously. "And I will go forward free, or I will go back to my own land where I am known to be true and honest, though I perish alone in the wilderness!"

Haldir raised his hand. "That you cannot do," he said, his silky voice stern. "You have come this far, and you cannot go back. Behind you there are secret sentinels that you cannot pass. You would be slain before you saw them, with your dull eyes."

"Try it at night, and find out," Gimli snarled, drawing his axe and planting it before him in the soft loam. "Dusk is upon us. Want to make an attempt?"

"A plague upon Dwarves and their stiff necks!" Legolas cried in frustration.

"Oh, shut up!" Lóni told him angrily.

"Come now," Aragorn said, stepping carefully between the two Elves and the obstinate Dwarf (and his invisible – and furious – retinue). "It's hard on Gimli to be singled out thusly. I am the leader now that Mithrandir has fallen, and you must all follow my orders."

"Oh, as though it is that simple!" Thorin scoffed, his blood hot and his pulse pounding.

"Maybe Men are easier to lead than Dwarves?" Frár suggested as he stepped closer to his husband and threaded his fingers through his hair comfortingly. Lóni subsided, scowling.

Frís glanced at Gimli, standing glowering behind Aragorn. His legs were planted as though earthquakes could not budge him. "I should think that _cats_ are easier to lead than Dwarves," she muttered.

Aragorn spread his hands. "We will all be blindfolded, even Legolas. That is fair, though it will make the journey slow and dull."

Legolas' head whipped around, and the faintest of colours began to mantle on his cheeks.

Suddenly, Gimli laughed his joyous, booming laugh. It was his old laugh, the one that made Thorin's spirits soar. Grief had not stolen it. "A merry troop of fools we will look!" he chuckled. "Will whatsit – Halthing here – will he lead us on a string, do you suppose? Still, I will be content if only Legolas shares my blindness."

Náli blinked, and then he began to chuckle. "Turns the tables quickly, don't he?

"What!" shouted Legolas, and his hand went to his quiver. The hint of colour of his cheeks deepened to a rich flush of anger. "I am an _Elf_! I am a kinsman of the lord of this land!"

Aragorn smiled. "Shall we now cry, 'a plague on the stiff necks of Elves'?"

Frís patted Thorin's hand. "You see, dear?" she said in a murmur. " _That's_ the way to do it."

* * *

Bifur hovered behind the Stonehelm's shoulder as he was ushered into the twisting vaulted corridors of the Elvenking's palace. He couldn't help but glance behind at the doors as they closed with a final-sounding boom. Those magic doors brought up a few nasty memories, after all.

The Stonehelm was a burly Dwarrow, but he looked small and childlike as he was ushered before the antlered throne. He obviously felt it, too, and drew himself up as tall as he could, cords standing out on his thick neck as he swallowed.

  
  
Thorin III Stonehelm, by [poplitealqueen](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/)  


The Elvenking, Thranduil himself, gave him an incurious look as he approached, his eyes luminous and detached. A glass of wine dangled elegantly from his hand. "Hail, Thorin Stonehelm, Prince of Erebor," he said in his soft, cold voice.

"Hail, Thranduil, King of Mir... uh, Eryn Lasgalen." The Stonehelm bowed perfunctorily to cover his near-slip, and Thranduil's lips were touched faintly by a smile.

"What brings you to my woods, Prince Thorin?" he said, and he rose in one fluid and graceful movement to tower over the Dwarrow.

"I have news, Majesty," the Stonehelm said, and he stubbornly refused to step back to see the Elvenking's face properly. Instead, he craned his head upwards, his eyes flashing. "My father sends me to tell you that a messenger has now come to Erebor three times."

"A messenger?" Thranduil's eyebrow arched, and then he took a step back. "What news is this? Erebor can have as many messengers as it likes. It needs not my approval."

The Stonehelm's breath quickened, but he held onto his temper with an iron grip. "We have no need of your approval for messengers, and yet this one concerns all free folk," he said crisply. "The messenger is from Mordor."

Thranduil's glass smashed all over the tiles. Thorin Stonehelm blinked, and then he looked up to regard the Elvenking with growing shock.

Bifur couldn't blame him.

Thranduil had leaned heavily to the side, and he had propped himself up by his hand against the armrest of his throne. His usually calm, cool blue eyes were wide. "Mordor," he breathed.

The Stonehelm nodded slowly.

"If you lie, Dwarf," Thranduil began, and Thorin Stonehelm's fists clenched.

"I do not lie," he said, and the underlying anger in his tone was overwhelmed by the note of fear. "Thrice now he has knocked on our gate, and thrice now we have turned him away. He wishes our friendship, he says, but if he will not get it then he will settle for war."

"So do you come to tell me of your new friends?" Thranduil sneered, and he drew himself up again, his robes swirling about his legs.

The Prince made a frustrated noise deep in his throat. "I come to tell you that Erebor will be at war! And no doubt all the North, for if Erebor falls, there is nothing to stop the orcs of Mount Gundabad from swarming south."

Thranduil stared at him. "There is more. Explain."

The Stonehelm turned away and ran his hand through his shaggy hair. "He wants to know about Hobbits," he spat. "Aye, Hobbits – like the Burglar of the Company. I know he was known to you, and you made an Elf-friend of your robber. He had a ring, a little ring that turned him invisible. Just a bauble. Do you recall it?"

Thranduil frowned. "I do. He made a stand during the Battle of Five Armies upon our flank wearing that ring. It seemed nothing more than an ounce or two of gold."

"The enemy wants it, and he will part with three of the Dwarf-rings to get it," Thorin said bluntly.

Thranduil whirled, his hair spinning in a golden and graceful arc as he turned his ancient and cutting gaze back upon the Dwarf. "The lost Dwarf-rings of power in your grasp, and still you do not accept his hand?" he asked intently.

The Stonehelm threw out his chest. "We are honourable," he said proudly. "We do not betray our friends."

Thranduil kept staring at him for a long, long moment, until the Prince began to fidget beneath his gaze. "Not even to preserve the safety of your people?" he eventually said.

Thorin snorted gracelessly. "What safety? Ring or no, Hobbit or no, Sauron cannot allow Erebor to stand. It is the watchtower of the North, and it guards all the passes. War would come to us eventually. We have never trusted him, and he knows it. Even if he swore friendship, he would turn upon us in the end."

"Indeed," Thranduil said, quiet and thoughtful. "Indeed."

Then he pinned Thorin with his unnerving stare once more. Watching silently, Bifur shuddered. "Why do you warn me? If you do not betray your friends for your people's safety, why come to one who did just that?"

The Stonehelm's thick neck convulsed as he swallowed, and then he bowed again before the Elvenking. "Because we were once friends," he said, and kept his eyes fixed upon the grey stone of the floor, "because we, at least, do not betray our friends. Because Mordor is greater than the differences between Elf and Dwarf. Because all our homes, hard-fought and hard-won, stand in peril."

Then Thorin straightened and his eyes were sad as he looked up at the great Elvenking, Thranduil Oropherion. "Because we know how to be strong," he said in a softer voice, "Strong enough to shatter. We don't know how to be weak. We don't know how to find a middle way. We don't know when to flee and not to fight."

Thranduil's head tipped slowly to the side as he looked upon the young, noble Dwarrow.

The Stonehelm sighed, taking the silence for a dismissal. "We prepare as I speak. If you decide to stand with us, we would welcome the wisdom of the Elves."

He turned to walk away, making for the curling passages and paths of stone that arched through the halls of Eryn Lasgalen.

"What is needed?" Thranduil said suddenly.

Thorin paused. "Excuse me?"

Thranduil took four swift, flowing steps to stand over the Dwarf once more. "What," he grated, "is needed?"

"Medicine," said the Stonehelm, surprised into a plain answer. "Warriors, and messengers. Food. The Bizarûnh – ach, pardon me – the Dalefolk do not yet answer the call. King Brand is fearful."

"And what do you think?" Thranduil said slowly.

"Me?" Thorin's eyebrows shot up. "Well. I don't blame him, t'be honest. Mordor is a name to be fearful of."

"It is," Thranduil said, and then he turned away, his long neck arching as his head lowered slightly in old, remembered pain.

"My Lord?" Thorin called after him, confused.

"I wouldn't," Bifur advised him. "His dungeons aren't all that far away, you know."

Finally Thranduil half-turned his head back to where the Prince waited. "I have avoided your people," he said in a low tone, his eyes glancing over and sliding away from the thickset Dwarf. "I have ignored you and your Mountain for close to eighty years. And now my youngest son is drawn into the heart of this matter, surrounded by peril, and doom faces us all. Mordor! I hoped I had heard the last of that name."

"Think we all did, to be honest," Thorin said, and he tugged at his beard. "It's only ever been a story to me."

"It was something more than a story to me," said Thranduil distantly. Then he span on his heel, his robes flaring, and began to stride away along the curving springs of stone, surefooted and elegant. "I will send healers and messengers and warriors," he said, his voice echoing behind him.

"You'll what?" Thorin reeled, astonished, and then he remembered himself. "Ah – my thanks, Majesty!"

"Do not thank me, Dwarf-Prince," said Thranduil grimly. "We fight against the shadow once more, and that is no cause for thanks."

Thorin Stonehelm frowned. "You stand with us? Then why not thank you?"

"I will have no thanks from a Dwarf," were Thranduil's last, curt words before he left the audience chamber and the Crown Prince of Erebor was left standing alone.

"Cheer up," Bifur said encouragingly. "You could be in a barrel right now."

* * *

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**
> 
>  
> 
> Boe? Am man theled, Aragorn? Man tôg hí? – Is it necessary? For what purpose, Aragorn? Who is the leader here?  
> Farn – enough  
> Mellon nin – my friend.  
> Mae govannan, Legolas Thranduilion - Well met, Legolas son of Thranduil  
> Govannas vin gwennen le, Haldir o Lorien - Our fellowship is in your debt, Haldir of Lorien
> 
> **Khuzdul**
> 
> Unkhash – the greatest sorrow  
> Nahùba - heroic  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Ghivasha - treasure  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal (formal goodbye)
> 
>   _Thank you all so, so much! Your reviews and kudos just make me so grateful. They keep me going, really they do!_
> 
> _All my love and hugs to dearest persianslipper, pre-reader of fantabulousness, and all my goggle-eyed awe to the Dwarrow Scholar. Seriously, they rock._


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Haban daughter of Hara_
> 
> Haban was a successful Firebeard merchant who traded from the Iron Hills to Ered Luin and back. She met Gróin son of Farin, a young nobleman, on a stop at Erebor and they instantly fell in love. She then made her base of operations the Lonely Mountain, and bore two sons in-between overseeing her trading caravans: Óin and Glóin. Haban had the bright and abundant red hair of her people, which passed down to her younger son Glóin and her grandchildren Gimli and Gimrís. She was very canny, aggressively competitive and liked driving a hard bargain. It was Haban who first instilled an interest in banking and financial matters in Glóin's head. She was also an axe-dancer of repute, and could spin as many as four at one time. Haban was killed at the Battle of Azanulbizar in 2799TA.
> 
> * * *

They slept that night upon a flet high in the branches of a mallorn-tree, and the Elves that accompanied Haldir all hid superior smiles at the sight of Gimli struggling to climb it.

"You could try helping, rather than standin' there an' sniggering!" Gimli burst out eventually, and the Elves laughed aloud.

"Here," Legolas said in a neutral voice, and passed Gimli a rope. Then the wood-elf sent a flat look to the Galadhrim and turned away.

Only Frís' warning hand on Thorin's arm prevented a furious tirade from descending upon the heads of the Lórien Elves.

"Thorin," she said quietly. "You must sleep. Twenty hours is too long. Come back when they rise again: you do not help Gimli or yourself by witnessing this."

"He'd be furious if he knew I'd seen it," Lóni agreed ruefully. "Come on, Frár. Náli, we'll come back in a little while. They will be safe in this wood."

"I doubt that," Thorin snarled, but he allowed his mother to lead him from the deep blue night of Arda into the drowned stars of Gimlîn-zâram.

* * *

"Eat!" Hrera barked, putting a bowl in front of Thorin the next morning. "Ah, Thorin darling, your face is being swallowed up by the black rings beneath your eyes! Soon there will be no face left and only black rings and everyone will wonder where you have gone."

"That was not amusing the first time I heard it, Grandmother," Thorin grumbled, but he sat at the table and picked up the spoon. The bowl was full of Hrera's traditional Broadbeam dumpling stew, and he brightened. It had been _centuries_ since he'd tasted it.

"Thought that might get your attention." She snorted and turned to rap Frerin's knuckles with a spoon. "No touching! That is for your brother."

"That is entirely unfair," Frerin complained. "How come Thorin gets Grandmother's stew and I don't?"

"Because Thorin has been working himself to the very bedrock," Hrera snapped back. "Keep your sticky fingers out of it, and there might be some left for you."

Frerin's hand shot back so fast it might have been springloaded.

  
  
Hrera and her young grandsons, by [Jeza-red](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/76945493325/jeza-red-for-some-reason-i-fell-in-love-with)  


"This is somewhat familiar," Thrór said humorously. "I am having flashbacks to Erebor before the Dragon came."

Thorin looked up with a cautious expression. His grandfather did not normally speak so calmly of that time. "I can remember very little of those early years," he said. "I can remember the pageantry, and the stew of course..."

"Thank you," Hrera said with dignity, and then rapped Fíli and Kíli over the heads with her spoon. "Don't you start as well! That belongs to your uncle."

"But it smells so good!" Kíli whined.

Thorin, prompted by some long-dormant imp of mischief, took a large spoonful of his stew and made a satisfied noise.

"I cannot believe you," Kíli said and he slid down in his chair and began to work on a very impressive sulk.

"All right, maybe Frerin's stories of your pranks aren't complete hogwash," Fíli said, and he folded his arms and gave Thorin a long and level look.

" _Uncle_ Frerin?" Frerin prompted hopefully, and Fíli and Kíli gave identical snorts of derision.

"Keep dreaming, youngster," Fíli said, and grinned.

Hrera waved her spoon at them. "Stay out of trouble today, great-grandsons, and I will make you a potful of your own," she said sweetly.

"All _day_?" Kíli said.

Hrera nodded solemnly. "All day."

"Strength, brother, we can do this," Fíli said, and he picked up his own spoon and began to eat his porridge with the determined air of a Dwarf going into battle. "I'm going to get that soup."

"It is very good," Thorin said innocently.

"I hate you," Kíli grumped. Hrera smacked his head again with her spoon, and he let out a moan. "Augh, why is every Dwarrowdam who is related to us utterly terrifying?"

"Oh, I'm sorry – I thought you knew something of the history of our family," said Frís calmly. "Pass the sugar, Thráin dear."

  
  
Fris and her boys, before the Dragon, by [injureddreams](http://injureddreams.tumblr.com/post/78428020435/303-her-boys-back-in-happier-times-fris-and)  


"Don't argue," Thrór advised the two young Dwarrows. "It makes it worse."

"Augh," Kíli said again, and his face landed on the table with a thump.

"Do you go back straight away?" Frerin asked Thorin, snatching the sugar on its way to his mother and liberally coating the surface of his porridge. Thorin swallowed a mouthful of his soup and nodded.

"The Fellowship is in Lothlórien," he said, and from the sudden dark looks around the table he knew he would have no argument.

"What d'you want us to do?" Frerin nudged him. Thorin raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"You can take a day, if you wish, unless Father would like company when he checks upon Glóin later."

"That old Dwarrow can move like the wind when he wants to," Thráin said, and he shook his head. "Unfortunately, he keeps getting distracted by likely iron deposits. Has he ever stopped being a financier?"

"Glóin? No," Thorin said, and smiled. No doubt Glóin was tallying up the likelihood of these deposits bearing useable ore, the profit and the cost involved in extracting it, and the margins between the two.

"I'll be with that Dori fellow today," Thrór said. "The defences of Erebor proceed apace. I'll keep you posted."

Thorin yawned, and then he rubbed at his eyes. "Thank you, grandfather."

"I intend to keep an eye on your sister and Dáin," Frís said, and then she tutted. "And please cover your mouth, inùdoy."

Frerin snickered until Thorin kicked him under the table.

* * *

"Hullo, boss," said Nori as Thorin shook off the clinging starlight. "They're on the move again."

"How long have you been watching?" Thorin said, and he rubbed at his eye again. Sweet Mahal, but he was tired.

"Couple of hours," Nori said, and he turned to gesture at the line of blindfolded folk all stumbling through the golden morning light. "Right bunch o' wallies they look, don't they?"

Thorin's lips pressed together. "Indeed."

Aragorn was leading their blind procession, guided by Haldir and two other Elves. Behind him came Gimli, then Boromir, Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Merry. At the rear was Legolas, his face smooth under his blindfold but with an unhappy curl to his mouth. "At least the ground is flat and even," Thorin grunted.

"There's that," Nori said. "I'm just a little put-out at missin' such a golden opportunity thanks to the small inconvenience of bein' dead."

"You would rifle through their pockets?" Thorin sent his companion an amused look, and Nori shrugged.

"No better time, wouldn't you say?"

"You do not change, my friend," Thorin said, and he shook his head in amusement.

Nori's look was puzzled. "Should I?"

At that moment, a new host of Elves met them, and Haldir exchanged a few quiet words with them before turning back to the Fellowship. "It seems a strange creature has been turned back at the borders," he told them. "A crouching thing that ran with a bent back. It was no orc and so they did not kill it, and it vanished down the Silverlode."

"Elves," Thorin growled. "They cannot get anything right!"

"That's the geezer our Burglar met under the Goblin King's caves, right?" Nori said, and scratched his head. "He's got to be gettin' on in years."

"He bore the Ring," Thorin said. "Who knows how long he has endured?"

"Shame they didn't shoot him," Nori said.

Abruptly Thorin remembered Gandalf's words, and a pang shot through him. "Aye, perhaps."

"They also bring me a message from the Lady of the Galadhrim," Haldir continued. "You are all to walk free, even the Dwarf Gimli. It seems the Lady knows your purpose."

He bent and untied the bandage first from Gimli's eyes. "Your pardon!" he said, and gave an elegant bow. "Look upon us now with friendly eyes! For you are the first Dwarf to behold the trees of the Naith of Lórien since Durin himself."

Gimli held his tongue, but his dark eyes spoke volumes.

Thorin cast his eyes over the great hill crowned with trees that stood, glowing and shifting, in the light of the sun and the sweet breeze. They were crowned with the golden leaves of the mallorn, and mighty trunks of silver shone between. Upon the grass grew small yellow flowers, star-shaped and fragrant and interspersed with more blooms of white and nodding green. The whole vista felt somehow as ancient as Khazad-dûm and yet living, a relic of far-gone times brought to the present day, a window into a vanished world.

"That," said Nori with profound dislike, "is the most Elvish thing I've ever seen."

Thorin only grunted. It was beautiful, yes – but Nori was correct. The power of the Elves radiated from the sight, and he could not help but feel small, misshapen and lumpen in the face of it.

"Caras Galadhon," Haldir said proudly. "The heart of Elvendom on earth, realm of the Lord Celeborn and Galadriel, Lady of Light."

"Beautiful," said Frodo softly, and he was echoed by Sam, Aragorn and to Thorin's horror, Gimli.

"Do you jest, Master Dwarf?" said Haldir, his brow arching.

Gimli shook his head. "Nay, it is beautiful. See how the leaves glisten like pale gold! Truly, this place is lovely beyond compare." He looked troubled at the admission.

"All right, but don't _tell_ them, their heads are big enough as it is!" Nori snapped, and Thorin rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

"My star, you are being obscure again," he groaned. "Remember who you are, Durin's child!"

Gimli's eyes tightened, and he turned to look out over the trees again in silence as the rest of the blindfolds were removed.

Aragorn's face was full of yearning. "Here my heart dwells forever," he murmured. "Oh, Undómiel, why were you so fair in the evening light with the silvery niphredil twined in your hair?"

"That's the face of a fellow in love, or I'm a Hobbit," said Nori, and Thorin frowned.

"Indeed," he said slowly. "This... Undómiel, I suppose. But what would a mortal be doing here in this timeless place?"

"Who knows?" Nori shrugged. "I don't bother myself much with the doings of the Men. Unless they've got something I want, of course."

"Come," said Haldir. "I will take you to the Lord and Lady."

They climbed the hill through the day, passing under the boughs of the great trees, each thicker than iron girders and clad in that same silvery-white bark. Here and there a _talan,_ or platform, could be spied in the branches, and they became more numerous as they made their way to the peak of the hill.

A road paved with white stone came snaking between the huge trunks, and Haldir led them onto it. The Hobbits looked around with wonder as the sun began to set and small lights began to rise up into the canopy, blue and silver and shining like earthly spirits.

Finally the road came to the mightiest tree yet, with a trunk so broad it could be mistaken for a thing made and not grown. Graceful stairs clung to its silvery skin, circling around and around like a caress.

"Here dwell Celeborn and Galadriel," Haldir said. "It is their wish that you should ascend and speak with them."

"What, make weary travellers climb up all those stairs?" Nori exclaimed. "I don't call that very welcoming."

Gimli eyed the delicate structure with some trepidation, but he followed Frodo up the stairs without a word. His heavy footsteps clanged and clattered against them, and he winced and cursed in Khuzdul. Thorin realised that Gimli must be feeling twice as cumbersome, puny and lumpen than he himself.

"Gimli," he murmured, keeping pace with the younger Dwarf. "You are a fine Dwarrow and a mighty warrior and a good soul. Do not let yourself be intimidated by this place!"

"Who could not feel small when faced with such living beauty?" Gimli murmured, and he trailed his fingertips against the smooth bark of the Mallorn tree.

"How tall _is_ this thing?" puffed Pippin from near the rear of the party. "Ostentatious, to my mind!"

Gimli's lips twitched, and he resumed the climb with renewed vigour.

Finally the stairs opened out to a wide talan like the deck of a great ship. Gimli shuffled backwards until he was near the back of the Fellowship, allowing Legolas and Aragorn to hold the front with Frodo. Merry and Boromir gave him a sympathetic look and Sam patted his shoulder in clumsy comfort, but before the Hobbit could speak two Elves, tall and glorious, began the descent from the higher platform to where they stood.

The lights that swirled around them became almost too bright, and Thorin squinted into it to see these newcomers more clearly. Hand in hand they came, and the woman was as tall as the man. His hair was long and silver, but hers was glory undimmed: mingled silver and gold and shining like a memory of mithril; like the unrestrained soul of the sun.

"Ach!" Gimli breathed, and he bowed his ruddy head. Aragorn touched his forehead in greeting, and Legolas stepped forward to incline his head to the man with some familiarity. Ah, so that was the kinsman he had spoken of before, Thorin realised.

"The Enemy knows you have entered here," the Lord said, and his voice was low and musical. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone."

Thorin's heart sank. "Well, that's bollocksed it," Nori muttered.

"Eight there are here, yet nine there were, set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is Gandalf?" the Lord continued. Yet as he spoke, the Lady's eyes flickered to Aragorn.

"He has fallen into shadow," she breathed, and if the man's voice was musical then hers was the pure sound of birdsong and flowing water, beautiful and melodious.

Aragorn nodded as he returned her strange and starlit gaze, his grief dancing in his eyes. The assembled Elves all cried out in horror and amazement.

"He was taken by both shadow and flame," Legolas said harshly. "A Balrog of Morgoth."

"I saw it, there upon the Bridge," Gimli choked, and his great sorrow was once more in his face. "I saw Durin's Bane."

"Alas," Celeborn said. "We long feared the Dwarves had stirred up that evil again. Had I known, I would have forbidden you to come here. And Gandalf chose this path? One would say that at the last he fell from wisdom into folly, going needlessly into the net of Moria."

Gimli's head lowered, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"He would be rash indeed that said that thing," Galadriel said, and her voice was cool as glass.

Thorin's brow furrowed, and he snapped up his head to stare at the slender Elf-woman.

"Did she just...?" Nori said in confusion.

"She just defended a Dwarf," Thorin breathed.

The Lady, all aglow, moved closer to where Gimli stood glowering and sad. "Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life, and none here knew his full purpose," she murmured. "Do not repent of your welcome to the Dwarf. If our folk had been exiled long and far from Lothlórien, who amongst us could pass close by and not wish to look upon our ancient home, even if it had become an abode of dragons?"

Celeborn looked rather taken aback – and so did Legolas.

"Sweet merciful Mahal," Thorin said in utter shock.

"She understands!" Nori said blankly. "She _understands –_ but she's an Elf!"

The Lady Galadriel smiled down at Gimli, and her eyes were wells of deep memory. "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone."

Thorin reeled, his mind awhirl. "She knows Khuzdul!"

"She knows Khuzdul!" Nori echoed, his mouth gaping open. His jaw shut with a snap, and he swallowed. His eyes were wild and wide. " _Really_ glad Balin ain't here right now. He'd find a way t' die twice."

"She... she did not call it by that foul Elvish slur," Thorin said, and he threaded his fingers in his hair and stared and stared and stared. "She did not call it _Moria..._ she calls it by its name..."

Gimli's face slowly turned up, and wonder dawned upon it. His eyes met those of the Lady, and then he smiled so suddenly and so brilliantly that Thorin gasped at the sight. He had thought Gimli's smiles lost for good.

With that bright and fierce joy in his face, Gimli clumsily bowed in dwarf-fashion, saying: `Yet more fair is the living land of Lórien, and the Lady Galadriel is above all the jewels that lie beneath the earth! '

The Lady's smile broadened and she inclined her head to Gimli in respect and welcome.

"I cannot believe what I see," Thorin managed.

Celeborn stepped forward and held out his hands. "Let Gimli forget my harsh words," he said a little stiffly. "I spoke in the trouble of my heart."

Gimli only kept gazing upon the Lady in utter awe.

"But what now becomes of this Fellowship?" Celeborn continued. "Without Gandalf, all hope is lost."

The Lady Galadriel looked up from Gimli to meet the eyes of Boromir. "The quest stands upon the edge of a knife," she said softly. "Stray but a little, and it will fail to the ruin of all."

Boromir shook, and then he turned away. Through his stunned shock, Thorin managed to wonder why. What was so important about the Elf-woman's eyes?

"Yet hope remains while a company is true," she said, and turned her gaze upon Sam. He bore under it unflinchingly, his honest face resolute, though his cheeks began to redden.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled," she said, turning to Legolas. He trembled, but kept his gaze upon hers. "Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil."

Her eyes travelled over the Hobbits as she continued. "Tonight, you will sleep in peace." Then her gaze fixed upon Frodo, and he shuddered and rocked back as though something had pierced him through.

Celeborn raised his hand and gestured to the Elves around them, and the Fellowship was led back towards the stairs.

"What, all the way up and back down again, just for five minutes of talk?" Nori cried in indignation. "Well, I like that!"

* * *

Nori left after the evening meal, grumbling about the (in his words), truly unnecessary amount of Elves everwhere he looked. Thorin stayed, his mind still cut adrift at the Lady Galadriel's response to both the Lord and to Gimli.

Singing floated between the trees, and Thorin floated too, reeling and stunned, glancing at the Fellowship as though they were unfamiliar to him.

[[Elvish Lament, performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66849216270/this-is-the-sixth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this)]

"A lament for Gandalf," Legolas murmured, and he closed his eyes in sorrow.

"What do they say about him?" Merry asked, but Legolas shook his head.

"I have not the heart to tell you," he said.

"Well, you could join in, couldn't you?" Sam suggested.

"Nay," Legolas lifted his chin and opened his eyes to look up at the starlit trees. "For me the grief is still too near."

"Here, why did you blush before, Sam?" Pippin asked. "You turned red as a beet and no mistake."

"Ah, well," Sam said, embarrassed. "When the Lady looked on me, it... it was like she was looking right inside my head. Like she was askin' what I'd do if she gave me the chance to go home to the Shire to a nice little hole with-with a bit of garden of my own."

"Well, that's funny," Merry said. "Almost exactly what I felt myself; only, only well, I don't think I'll say any more," he finished lamely.

"Strange," Gimli said in his deep voice and his brow was furrowed, though his eyes were still alight with that strange joy. "I saw my people, my ancient home, my friends, and. And, no, I will not say either. It seemed that my choice would remain secret and known only to myself."

Boromir frowned. "Well, have a care! I do not feel too sure of this Elvish lady and her tests."

"Speak no evil of the Lady Galadriel!" Aragorn said sternly. "There is in her and in this land no evil, unless one brings it here themself."

Boromir bit down on his lip, and Thorin shook himself from his shock to turn in disbelief to Aragorn. "You call that reassurance!" he bit out. "This Man needs your friendship, not your censure!"

Aragorn, of course, could not hear him.

"That song ought to have something in there about old Gandalf's fireworks," Sam said suddenly, and Thorin could have blessed the Hobbit for changing the subject. "Be a crime if they got left out. Here, what about this?" And he stood and began to declaim as around them, the Elvish singing soared up into the night sky.

* * *

The next morning came too soon. His head aching from too little sleep and his eyes scratchy, Thorin made his way to the Chamber of Sansûkhul alone.

The stars gathered him up and released him into a sunlit glen. He blinked in the warm golden light that filtered through the canopy of the mammoth trees, bathing all in its path in a glimmering dappled glow. The sound of the rushing Silverlode could be heard clearly. It was a peculiarly peaceful scene, and he regarded it suspiciously. He turned around and around before spying a small huddled figure by the edge of the stream.

"Gimli," he murmured, and stepped forward before halting as if struck.

Gimli was bent over the stream, gazing sightlessly into the water. He held his travelling knife in his hand, and his lips were nearly white where they were pressed together tightly. His unfocused eyes were glimmering.

"What do you do here, my son?" Thorin breathed, before forcing himself to take another step.

Gimli's beard was unbound and flowed over his chest, and his other hand was curling through it absently. Seemingly by feel alone, he separated a lock of his long, thick red beard. His other hand drifted upwards, and with a sudden sharp jerk he cut through the lock and cast it into the water.

"Óin," he murmured.

"No! 'Ikhuzh!" Thorin said, and he made to move towards Gimli to – to what? To stop his mourning? What could Thorin do? Did he even have the right?

"Why do you do that?" came a light Elven voice, and he span on his heel to see Legolas enter the peaceful glade. The Elf's head was cocked, and his eyes were wide.

Gimli did not answer, but instead cut through another lock of his beard. The cut ends poked through the long strands of the remainder and curled around his chin, silky and short like a child's first growth. Thorin ached to see his fine beard so butchered.

"Cousin Balin," Gimli whispered.

"My star, please do not mourn so," Thorin said, and he threw his dignity aside and implored him shamelessly. "You need not make the rituals. You need not cut a lock for each of them: keep your honour and your beard!"

Gimli did not hear him. He sighed and cut another one, before murmuring Lóni's name and casting it into the water.

"Is it some sort of custom?" Legolas asked, fascinated. Thorin growled at him.

"This is not for your eyes, Elf!" he snarled. Then he span back to Gimli and said, "nor is it necessary! My star, there are better ways to mourn. Do not make my mistakes! A shorn beard is not a shorn grief!"

Gimli finally looked up, his hand still threaded through the long mass of his unbraided beard and his knife clutched so tightly in the other that Thorin could clearly see the tendons stretched over the knuckles. "You have no business here," Gimli said, and his voice rumbled and rasped like an avalanche. "Leave me be."

"I would know what you do here," Legolas said, holding his hands up unthreateningly. "Why do you cut your beard? I thought a Dwarf never cut his beard."

"There are two reasons a Dwarf would cut their beard, and this is the first," Gimli said, turning back to the water. His voice became slower and duller as he cut another lock. "Náli," he said, and his voice cracked.

"Is it a mourning ritual?" Legolas said, his eyes widening.

Gimli sighed again, and gave the Elf a steady, sad look. "I am mourning my kin and my friends and the Grey Wizard. I have no ink or needle and cannot tattoo their marks in this place, and so I give a lock for each, more precious to me than my pride. Now go."

"Few things are more precious than a Dwarf's pride," Legolas said. "I may walk where I choose."

Gimli again did not answer, but cut yet another lock and cast it into the waters. The bright hairs swirled and shone upon the white stream like fallen leaves of autumn.

"Tell me that is the last!" Thorin said, and he turned his face from the sight. "You will have stray hairs escaping your braids for a year or more, inùdoy," he groaned. "Why do this?"

"Do you choose to stay and mock me?" Gimli said, looking up with red-rimmed eyes.

Legolas' face softened. "Nay, Master Dw- Master Gimli," he said. "I do not mock."

"Then leave. My grief is no performance for Elves to gawk at!"

"Ra shândabi!" Thorin snapped, and he folded his arms and glowered at the Elf.

"I do not," Legolas began, and then he sighed in aggravation and ran a hand through his own silky blond hair. "I do not mean to make you feel that way," he said in a calmer tone. "I am sorry."

At this, Gimli blinked. Then his face grew suspicious. "This is a new tale."

"Yes, and for that I am sorry as well." Legolas folded his long legs beneath him, and he sat down several feet from the Dwarf, turning his face to the rushing waters of Kibil-nâla. "I did not understand. I _do_ not understand."

"But you wish to," Gimli said blankly. His eyes grew hard. "And how many of your brethren hide in secret around us, laughing at the Naugrim in his misery and solitude? Did you draw lots to go and prod it to make it entertain you? Have you a blindfold ready?"

Legolas' head snapped up, and his eyes flashed. "No! There are no others!" he cried. "I would not do that to you!"

Gimli glared at him.

Legolas' shoulders drooped, and he winced. "It was ill-done of them," he said. "You should be treated with more respect than that."

"Then leave me alone!"

"Go, you damned cursed Elf!" Thorin bellowed.

  
[](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/84118539583/finished-whooop-collapses-in-a-heap-oh-mahal)   


  


_Thorin, Gimli and Legolas, by[christmashippo](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/84118539583/finished-whooop-collapses-in-a-heap-oh-mahal)_

"I will not," Legolas said breathlessly. "Gimli, I cannot understand! I saw you with the Lady... I saw that _she_ could understand, where I... You confuse me at every turn."

"Here is a direction even _you_ cannot confuse," Gimli snarled. "Go. Away."

Legolas stared at him, his chest heaving. Then he clutched at the green sod with his long fingers and raised his chin stubbornly. "No."

Gimli returned the stare angrily for a long moment, and the threat of violence hung in the air like the ringing echoes of a struck bell.

Then Gimli made a defeated noise, and he slumped and wrenched his gaze away. "I have no heart to argue with you further," he muttered. "Stay and be silent!"

"You will not hear me," Legolas promised.

"What in Durin's name, Gimli!" Thorin practically roared. "Get him gone! If you must do this, do not have this damned Elf as witness!"

Gimli ignored him, and combed out his uneven beard with his fingers once more, before murmuring, "Ori." Then he cut off a lock and cast it into the water.

It took seven more locks before Gimli stopped, his knife falling from his lax hand and his head bowed. His shoulders shook with weeping as he choked out Gandalf's ancient Dwarven name, and cast the long red hair into the water with a muffled sound.

Legolas was utterly silent, and he watched with shining eyes.

Finally Gimli raised his head and ran a hand over his thinned beard. "Enough," he murmured, his eyes reddened but dry.

"May..." Legolas leaned forward, and his slender fingers reached for the knife. "May I?"

Gimli simply looked at him, wrung out and hollow.

Thorin looked on with growing suspicion and shock as the Elf brought the knife to his own pale hair and cut off a lock. "There," he said quietly, and threw it into the waters. "For Mithrandir."

A moment of calm descended upon the glade. Legolas inhaled slowly, and upon the exhale a certain tension bled from his shoulders and he sat up a little straighter. His face, which before had been drawn and anxious, grew smooth and calm as he looked upon the golden hairs swirling in the waters of the icy Silverlode.

"Yes," he said to himself. "Yes, that."

"Why would you do that?" Gimli asked, his voice listless and dull. "My customs can mean nothing to you in this land of Elves untouched by time. If you do not mock me, what are you doing here?"

Legolas fingered the ends of the shorter piece left in his hair, and then he reversed Gimli's broad-bladed knife with an elegant and practised flip to hold the handle towards the Dwarf. "This is a land of Elves, yes," he said cryptically. Then he gave Gimli a look from under his brows, as though what he had just said was somehow significant.

"Speak plainly!" Thorin burst out. "Ah, Gimli, do not stay to listen to such foolishness!"

"Will you never answer a question plainly?" Gimli said in exasperation, a touch of his old fire in his voice. Thorin nearly cheered to hear it.

"You heard me! Ah, my star, you are back with me!" he said, and he wished he could hold Gimli's wild head close, to press their brows together. It seemed the cruellest mockery that he could never hold or touch this Dwarf, closer than a son to him.

The Elf stayed where he was, holding out Gimli's knife to him. "I see I must be clearer," he said to himself. "You seem a most straightforward type."

"I see no need to dissemble," Gimli said, lifting one massive shoulder and dropping it. "I am Gimli, and that is all. Why would I pretend to be otherwise?"

"That is not all though, is it?" Legolas shook the knife slightly, and Gimli leaned forward very, very slowly and took it. "You are more than you appear, Master Dwarf."

"I wish you would not call me that." Gimli resheathed his knife in his boot with a slightly-more-forceful-than-necessary shove. "I have a use-name, and it is a fine one."

"I apologise," Legolas said quickly.

"That is the third time. What am I, then, that you should apologise to me?"

"Honest," Legolas said, and he smiled the faint, inscrutable smile of Elvenkind. "Brave. Kind. Passionate. Loyal. Well-spoken. Generous. You surprise me at every turn, Master Gimli. I thought I knew what and who you were, and I find that nearly everything I know is lies and half-truths misshapen by old hatreds. In all my summers under leaf and bough, I have never been so wrong."

Thorin jerked backwards, and his mouth dropped open.

That almost sounded like-

"It cannot be," he breathed.

Gimli was staring at the Elf, his lips parted with surprise. "No, wait," he said roughly. "This is. I. No, this is not how things are. Now I am the one confused! Back up a bit and answer some of my questions. Why are you here?"

Legolas inclined his head, and the cut section of his hair fanned out against his cheek in the light breeze. "I wish to become your friend," he said.

Gimli's eyes dropped. "You think on what he said too, then?"

"Yes." Legolas' bright gaze fell upon the water, and in them was all the endless sorrow of Elvenkind. "He asked us, before we stepped into Moria..."

"To be friends, aye." Gimli sighed, and rubbed at his leg with one broad and powerful hand. "I wish I had listened then."

"So do I," Legolas said quietly.

"So. Gandalf asked. No other reasons?" Gimli looked up, and the sunlight glinted from the beads woven into his hair and the cuff wrapped around his ear.

"For yourself alone," Legolas said. "You must understand, I have been given a picture of Dwarves that..."

"Ah," Gimli said, bitterness flooding his face. "No doubt."

"No, do not turn away before I am finished!" Legolas said with sudden and unexpected heat. "You ever react this way, and I have not even said anything!"

"You do not need to," Gimli said with a sarcastic lilt. "Let me guess, for I can probably supply a few of the more choice slanders against us: I am greedy, grasping, soulless, treacherous, and have no finer feelings. Does that cover it?"

Legolas fell silent, and then he burst out, "no it does not! For my father is Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen now, but once he was Thranduil of _Doriath,_ Gimli. Can you now think of the tales I was told? Can you now think of the words I was fed along with my milk and bread?"

Gimli looked at him with wide eyes. "Aye," he faltered, and then he put his head in his hands. "Aye, I can."

"But no, that is all wrong, I wish I had not said that now," Legolas moaned and he stood swiftly and his hands fisted in the green-grey tunic he wore. "I do not hold your people accountable, Gimli. The madness of that age felled many, Elf and Dwarf alike, all over three gems and a blood oath..."

"My grandmother was a Firebeard," Gimli mumbled.

Legolas choked over his next words, and he span to stare at Gimli with mottled cheeks.

Gimli took his hands from his face and clasped them tightly together. "They are a disappearing people," he said to the grass. "They were almost wiped out after their foul deed; the revenge of the Lackhand was swift and terrible. But a few survived, though Nogrod was never what it was before. Most of those fled to Khazad-dûm after Ered Luin was lost."

"Your hair," Legolas said, faint and thready.

Gimli nodded wordlessly.

"You... you have Firebeard blood," Legolas said, and he turned on the spot to cry to the trees, "Ai, amarth faeg!"

"Nothing is ever simple," Gimli said in a whisper. "So, that's that then. Your idea of friendship was a very noble one, lad. I think it kind of you to try. But there is too much between us. My grandmother's people butchered yours, your father imprisoned mine and besieged our home, the Elves hunted down and slaughtered our cousins, and countless other atrocities besides, back into the very dawn of days. The Lady may not look upon me with hatred and distaste, but surely you do."

Legolas stood very still for a long, long moment, his breath coming fast and his hands trembling. Then he forced his eyes up to look at Gimli where he sat, sad and still, at the banks of the rushing river.

"No, I do not," Legolas said eventually. "Your grandmother's people are gone. You are here, and you have been both brave and good."

Gimli's brow furrowed in confusion, and he slowly looked up.

"I promise I tell you the truth," said Legolas, and he stepped closer. He was tall and proud, a spear of pale gold in the dappled light, but he no longer seemed so cold and remote.

"This makes no sense," Gimli croaked. "First the Lady. Now this. My head is spinning, and I find I do not know what is true or false anymore. Elves do not look upon my kind as equals. We are the unwanted ones and you are the favoured ones, and that is how it has always been. Elves do not defend Dwarves against their own, and yet the Lady did so - and to her Lord before all of her people! Elves do not apologise to Dwarves, and you have done so three times now! Elves do not _care_ for the short lives of mortals, and yet you speak to me gently and will not leave! What do you mean to gain from all this?"

"I will gain a friend," Legolas said, and he took three light quick steps to sit down opposite Gimli once more, his long legs folding beneath him. They made a strange sight: the sturdy, fiery Dwarf and the slender, moon-pale Elf.

"Who told you that Elves care nothing for mortals?" Legolas frowned.

Gimli blinked. Then he said, "I do not know. It seems I have always known it. It is wrong, then?"

Legolas nodded, and his nostrils flared in banked irritation. "It appears that you have also swallowed lies whole."

"Aye," Gimli said wonderingly. "For I thought ill of the Lady ere I met her. Now I know she is the wisest and kindest of beings in the world, to understand a Dwarf's grief."

"It was magnificent, Gimli," Legolas said in a quiet, muted voice. "I am sorry I did not say. Mor... Khazad-dûm was glorious even in its ruin."

Gimli closed his eyes. "Aye. It was." Then he rumbled out a sad chuckle. "And your accent is atrocious."

"I am sorry about your kin also."

"Well." Gimli's eyes flickered open and he seemed a little abashed. "I... I thank you for pulling me away from my madness and sorrow at Balin's tomb."

"You need not thank me," Legolas said gently.

"That an Elf should save the life of a mortal?" Gimli softly snorted. "Aye, I believe I should be thanking you."

"Why do they say such things of us?" Legolas did not ask the question with any anger. Rather, he seemed drained and weary.

Gimli huffed. "For much the same reasons your people speak such evils about mine, no doubt. It is said that we will always be discarded. Dwarves may be considered as friends for as long as we are useful to Elves, and then we are cast aside and the works of our hands, dearer to us than aught else, withheld for long ages. Then too, Elves depart this land and all its troubles to their safe havens over the sundering seas, leaving all grief and woe to mortals. Little wonder such tales came about."

Legolas cried aloud. "No! That is not true at all! We leave this land because we _must._ Our great ones dwindle, and we must depart or become a shadow of what we were. Many of us still love Middle-Earth and all its beauties, but grief becomes too great to bear and only Elvenhome may wash it clean. For mortals break our hearts: you are so bright, and so fleeting. We cannot help but care, and we are left desolate when you die and depart to that place where we may not go."

Gimli let out a long breath and glanced up at Legolas from under his brows. "All lies, then."

Legolas nodded firmly.

"I wonder how much else is lies," Gimli wondered. "Perhaps Gandalf would have known."

"No doubt," Legolas said, and he cocked his head. "For Gandalf, then?"

"No," Gimli said, and shook his head, his beads swinging in his wild hair. "Gandalf may have wished us to be friends, but I will not make a friendship in the name of the dead. That is no friendship at all." Then he squinted up at the Elf. "Do you not consider what these Lothlórien Elves may think of all this?"

The Elf's face darkened. "They can hardly refute the words of the Lady Galadriel, and all saw her greet you with courtesy and respect. Besides, there have been friendships between Elf and Dwarf before. We would hardly be unusual."

"Aye, but consider how those friendships ended," Gimli said, and he slumped. "You will be mocked."

"I do not care," Legolas said quickly. "You saw the Doors as clearly as I – _more_ clearly, possibly, as it was night! Celebrimbor's name stood upon those doors, made by Dwarvish hands."

"Narvi," Gimli remembered. Then his eyebrows rose. "Khelebrimbur, as he was known amongst my folk, and doors were not all he crafted."

Legolas winced. "No. And the curse of his family followed him."

"No curse on your family that I should know about, is there?" Gimli said, forcing a wan smile.

"Nay," Legolas said. "Upon yours?"

"Several," Gimli said with wry humour. "I am of Durin's line, after all."

Thorin scowled.

"My people will not understand," Gimli continued, and worry briefly crossed his face. " _Your_ people will not understand."

"The Lady will," Legolas said.

"Ah." Gimli breathed out, and then he slowly nodded his wild head once. "Yes. The Lady understands everything."

Legolas swallowed, before he leaned towards the Dwarf and held out his hand. "May we do this again?" he said softly.

Gimli glanced down at his hand, and then his lip twisted. "But – those Elves out there – Doriath – the slaughter of the nûlukhkhazâd – the siege of Erebor – my father - _your father!"_ he cried roughly. "Why?"

"Because in this land of Elves, I cannot sing. I must find a Dwarf to give me the way to grieve," Legolas said, and though his breath still came quite fast, he was smiling. "Besides, I find I cannot watch the Galadhrim here treat you in such a manner without wishing to punish them soundly! As for the rest, Doriath is gone, a memory of Elder days. I do not know what that word means, my friend. I would you would tell me more of your people's ways: they are harsh to me, but beautiful, like a mountain standing tall and proud in the cruellest of winds. Erebor belongs to the Dwarves again and no Elf threatens it, and my father has all my love and duty in everything but this. I ask you, Gimli – may we try again?"

Gimli looked at Legolas' outstretched hand as though it were full of live snakes.

"Gimli," Thorin said in shock and dismay. Then in desperation he said that secret name he had only heard once, spoken in the closeness of Glóin's quarters in Rivendell.

The silence stretched and stretched, and it seemed that all the world seemed to fade into the background. Thorin's breath caught behind his teeth.

Then Gimli's broad hand firmly landed in Legolas' palm. "My name is Gimli, son of Glóin, of the Line of Durin and the Lonely Mountain," he said, and he looked up. Grief lingered in the corners of his eyes, but he was returning the smile. "I am, I'm afraid, quite definitely a Dwarf an' there's little I can do about it. Still, I hope you don't find it too offensive, laddie."

Legolas laughed. "And I am Legolas Thranduilion, and I regret to inform you that I am an Elf, and a Wood-elf of Mirkwood at that; a Sinda by birth and Silvan by upbringing, and I cannot change that any more than I can the setting of the sun or the falling of the leaves. I do hope it is not too much of an aggravation."

Gimli chuckled. "Ah, but Elves are always aggravating!"

Legolas laughed again, a light ripple like the wavelets of the Silverlode. "And Dwarves are always offensive!"

Gimli grinned in return. "Well met, Legolas."

The Elf smiled warmly. " _This_ time."

Gimli's resulting laugh frightened the birds from the trees, booming and pealing with merriment and joy. Their hands remained clasped firmly together, the long fingers of the Elf pale as milk against Gimli's broad brown hand. So unlike, so utterly unlike, but they held together as easily as a key fitting a lock.

Thorin stared at the two in mounting disbelief.

"Will you show me more of this wood?" Gimli said, breaking the warm silence. His face was still creased in a grin.

"It would be my honour," Legolas said, smiling. "I have found a place where the mallorn grow close to a strange greyish stone, shot through with glossy black. Perhaps you can tell me what it is?"

"Hmm, sounds like some sort of obsidian," mused Gimli, and he rose to his feet and used his clasp on Legolas' hand to bring the Elf upright to his. "I do like the mallorn. They are like great pillars of silver and gold, but they move and breathe!"

"Ah, they are wonderful, are they not?" Legolas said, and he finally released Gimli's hand to gesture towards the East. "It is this way."

"Lead on, Master Legolas," Gimli said with a little bow, and the pair laughed together more softly and side by side they left the clearing.

"Perhaps you will also tell me about your kin as we walk?"

"If I can find the words, aye. But I wouldn't push your luck, laddie."

"What in Durin's name?" Thorin cried into the silence. Then he tore from the waking world to storm through the corridors of the Halls to his chamber, where he sat and fumed for hours.

* * *

His grandmother was the one to come to him, in the small hours of the night.

  
  


  


_Hrera, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/74909185791/finally-a-full-body-version-of-hrera-thrors)_

"Ah, what did I tell you, my treasure?" she said gently, sitting down on the bed beside him and turning his face towards her. He allowed her to, his mind stripped and fogged with shock and anger. "Eaten up by dark circles. Look at that."

He endured her cosseting for a few seconds more, before pulling his head from her hands. "Enough," he said low. "I am no child."

She paused, and then she put her hands on her hips. "No, that you are not, but you are doing a fine impression," she said. "I've not seen such a display since your father was seventeen and demanded that everyone call him by his title at all times."

The notion was so preposterous that Thorin snorted. "Father did that?"

Hrera smiled. "He was very young."

"He would have skinned me or Frerin or Dís for such behaviour," Thorin said.

"Ah, well, you had your own brand of trouble, you three," she said, and smoothed her hand along the back of his. "Now, tell me what it is that has you storming through the Halls like a great angry thundercloud, frightening everyone with your scowl and your great black rings where eyes should be."

He shot her a sardonic look, but she simply waited. Then he turned his hand over and gripped hers. "Gimli has befriended the Elf," he said bluntly.

Hrera's soft intake of breath was very loud in the closeness of the chamber.

"That is enough to make any Dwarrow angry, let alone one who..." Thorin broke off and set his teeth together grimly.

Hrera was still and silent for a moment, and then she sat back with a huff, primly cocking her head and pinning him with her glare. "Say it," she commanded. "I am done and through with all of your emotional censorship, Thorin. Say it!"

He glared. She glared back.

"Say it!" she snapped again, and her hand squeezed his in warning. "You stubborn Durin men and your damned obstinacy! Stoic to the point of sickness, you are! What will it take for you to admit that you love that boy like a son?"

"Enough!" Thorin roared, and he threw her hand away. "Yes, I love him! He is my star!"

She nodded proudly. "Better. Well done, nidoyel."

Thorin glowered at her. She ignored it blithely and patted his hand again. "I'll train you all out of it, one by one," she muttered to herself, before giving him a benevolent, grandmotherly smile. "Now, your son has made a friend in the Elf. Why does this bother you so?"

"Why?" Thorin bellowed, and she winced and pinched the back of his hand sharply.

"I can hear you quite well, there is no need to shout," she said irritably. "And yes, that was what I asked. Why does it bother you?"

"Because..." Thorin carded his hand through his hair. "Because he is an Elf! He will only disappoint Gimli – it is unnatural! They are enemies, for Mahal's sake; Legolas is Thranduil's son! They _hate_ each other!"

Hrera's eyebrow jumped upwards. "Hmm," she said absently, and then she fixed him with a look again. "You know, I utterly hated your grandfather when I met him."

Thorin didn't even get the chance to gape in shock at yet _another_ revelation, because Hrera continued. "Oh yes! Despised him - right down to the ridiculous way he braided his beard in those days. It was a shameful sight, I'm glad I managed to persuade him to change it. At any rate, there I was, eighty years old and taken from my home and thrust into the brand new court of Erebor by the will of my father and the Council of Advisors. And this great bristling lout who never spoke to me properly is to be my husband? Pah! King or no, I wasn't touching that with a ten-foot hammer."

"Is there a point to all this?" Thorin said weakly.

"I'm getting to it, dearest," she said consolingly. "A bit of patience on your part, please. Now where was I...

"Oh yes. So, I wanted less than nothing to do with Erebor, Longbeards, your grandfather or any of it. But where else was I to go? I was at the Mountain and winter was drawing in, and I would not be able to get back home until spring broke and snows of the passes melted. I was stuck.

"Day after day I endured the court, and day after day I was forced into proximity of more and more of you stone-faced Longbeards. And then the strangest thing happened: I began to understand them."

"Familiarity, you mean?" Thorin rubbed at his eyes. "You think that is what has happened with Gimli and the Elf? They have become friends because of their enforced companionship on the Quest?"

"Great Telphor, no," Hrera said, snorting. "If that were the case I would have ended up married to my silverwork. I mean that time helped me see underneath all of your stony scowls and stoic faces and love of incomprehensible tradition, and - frankly - appalling beard choices to see who the Longbeards truly were. _Time,_ Thorin."

"But an Elf?" Thorin said, and shook his head helplessly.

Hrera rolled her eyes. "Ignoring your elders when they have just told you a very insightful story is extremely rude, akhûnîth. Now, be practical for a moment and think with your _brain_ , not your overdeveloped sense of injustice and history. Your boy and the Elf were eventually going to recognise the good traits in each other, given enough time. No-one is so blind as all that." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Although you Longbeards live to prove me wrong."

"Ah, but by your grace, my lady grandmother, I have Broadbeam ancestry as well," he said, and she folded her arms.

"Then there isn't an excuse, is there?"

"What happened next?" he asked, interested despite himself.

"What?"

"With the court, and you, and grandfather."

"Oh, that," Hrera yawned, and daintily covered her mouth. "Do excuse me, it's very early. I ended up throwing a silver set of clasps I was working on at your grandfather one day, and they hit him square in the face. He came to court the next day wearing them." She smiled fondly. "They looked particularly fetching with his bruised eye."

Thorin could not even find it in himself to be surprised at anything anymore.

"Too many shocks today," he muttered.

"There, there," she cooed.

She kissed his forehead, and then pushed it back down upon his pillow with one finger. "Sleep," she said firmly. "Or I shall sit here and reminisce about your babyhood until you do."

He shut his eyes hurriedly, and then he scowled as he heard her soft laughter. "You are a tremendously cruel Dwarrowdam, grandmother," he grated.

She blew out the candles and stood. Her hand rested on his brow comfortingly for a moment. "Yes, dear. I know," she said gently.

* * *

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you all so, so much for your amazing comments and kudoes! AUGH HOW ARE YOU ALL SO AWESOME AND LOVELY_
> 
>  
> 
> _Lots of dialogue taken from the Chapters 'Lothlórien' and 'The Mirror of Galadriel'._
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Amarth faeg! – Evil fate!
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Ra Shândabi! – And agreed!  
> Haban - Gem  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> nûlukhkhazâd - Petty-dwarves  
> akhûnîth - young man
> 
> Celebrimbor - A Noldo, son of Curufin and grandson of Fëanor, greatest of the Elven smiths. It was Celebrimbor who created the Rings of Power along with Sauron in his disguise as Annatar, Lord of Gifts. Celebrimbor made the three Elven rings in secret, and so Sauron never touched them.
> 
> Aragorn and Arwen - These two fell in love in Lothlórien. Read the Appendices for the whole hella-sad romantic tale. 
> 
> Doriath - The mighty kingdom of the Sindar ruled over by Elu Thingol and Melian the Maiar. Celeborn and Oropher (father of Thranduil) both hail from this kingdom. When Thingol asked the Dwarves of Nogrod to set the Silmaril in a necklace (the Nauglamir), they refused to hand over their work. When Thingol tried to take it, they slew him and ransacked the palace.
> 
> Of gems and a blood-oath - the Silmarils, and the oath of the Noldor that led to the Ban of the Valar (exile from Aman).
> 
> Nogrod (Khuzdul: Tumunzahar) - Kingdom of the Firebeard Dwarves in the Blue Mountains, sister city to Belegost, lost during the War of Wrath when the mountains fell into the sea. These Dwarves were those responsible for the sacking of Doriath and the murder of Elu Thingol.
> 
> Lackhand - Beren Erchamion, the mortal lover of Lúthien Tinúviel, the fairest Elf ever to live. Lúthien was the daughter of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath. When Thingol was murdered by the Nogrod Dwarves. Beren hunted down and killed the host of Firebeards responsible for the act and took back the Nauglamir. 
> 
> Nûlukhkhazâd - The Petty-dwarves were a dwarf-like people, smaller than their cousins, who were less sociable and yet gave their true-names freely. Other Dwarves considered them ugly and lazy, and it is possible that they were in fact Dwarves of various houses who had been exiled for some unknown reason. When Elves first encountered them they thought them little more than pests, and hunted them for sport. By the end of the First Age, they had died out altogether.
> 
> Telphor - One of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, first ancestor of the Broadbeam clan.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Dís daughter of Frís_
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/62875431240/dis-waited)  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> _Dís Waited, by[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/62875431240/dis-waited)_  
> 
> 
> Once a Princess of Erebor, now First Advisor to the King, Dis has lived through the same terrible losses and hardships that so hardened her eldest brother, Thorin. She adjusted by becoming very stern and dutiful, and over the years she has become quite cold in her manner. In addition, she lost her One (Víli son of Vár) after only twenty years together, and so she had to raise her young sons Fíli and Kíli alone. Trained in history and statecraft and not warcraft or tactics, Dís was originally groomed for political life. The fall of Erebor interrupted those plans and so she became a jeweller instead. She created a scandal when she married Víli, a poor and lowborn stonemason, as he was not a suitable choice of partner for a Royal heir according to the Council. Her family defended her decision, but she made a final end to the matter when she responded by relinquishing her place in the succession in favour of her sons. She is not as prone to anger as the men of her family, though she has an abundance of her line's steely determination and pigheaded stubbornness. Dís has inherited the dark hair and eyes of Thráin. Her favoured weapon is a sword, though she also wields the bow with some skill.
> 
> * * *

Thorin didn't bother with eating the next morning. He threw on a tunic, belted it, pulled his hair back into a rough queue (he couldn't remember the last time he had brushed and oiled it) and shoved his feet into his boots without lacing them. It was only as he was striding towards his chamber door that he realised he had forgotten to put on some trousers.

His attire sorted out, he made his way directly for Gimlîn-zâram and ignored the calls of his name that floated towards him through the sweet ringing rock of Mahal's Halls. One of the voices sounded rather like his grandfather, but he carried on regardless. Yesterday's news from Erebor would keep for a few more hours.

His head felt light and free-floating. Evidently he had not managed sufficient sleep once again. He ignored it and sat at his customary bench, his left hand settling beside his leg as always. His fingers had worn grooves in the soft smooth sandstone.

With the sound of Gimli's hand landing in the Elf's palm ringing in his ears, he dived into the pool and emerged, shaking and blinking, in Rivendell.

Elrond's home always made Thorin feel resentful. He knew he had not behaved in an exemplary fashion (and neither had any of his people, with the possible exception of Ori), and the reminder made him seethe rather than fill him with guilt. Elrond himself had been of help to his Company, grudging though it was. Thorin should have been more gracious.

But the damned Elf was just so _superior!_

Bilbo understood Elves. Bilbo would help Thorin understand. Bilbo. Where was Bilbo?

He squinted into the rays of soft, honey-coloured light that spilled into the graceful walkways of the Last Homely House. Bilbo was nowhere to be seen, but a tall and slender Elf-maid was moving swiftly between the lacy, fanciful domes. Her blue dress billowed out behind her, and her long dark hair was loose. Her face was heart-stoppingly lovely, even beardless as she was, and her eyes were nearly the equal of Mizim's. A covered dish rested in her hands.

"Master Bilbo?" she said softly, stopping at a door and knocking.

"A... blast! Oh dear, just... wait a moment, will you?" came the cracked and querulous voice of his very Own.

Eventually the door opened, and the white head peered out. Bilbo was clutching a stick, and his hair had thinned even more since Thorin's last visit. "Oh, Lady Arwen," he said, and his face creased into a smile, the wrinkles gathering around his eyes and lips. "Do come in! Awfully sorry for the wait: knees aren't what they were, you understand."

The Elf-woman smiled back, and Thorin was startled to see a genuine fondness in her face. "There is no need to apologise," she said in a low, smooth voice. "Here, I have brought the cakes you wished to try. I do not believe they are my finest effort."

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much!" Bilbo said, giving her a meaningful look. "After all, who is the Hobbit here?"

"I would never argue with you when it came to food, my idùzhib," Thorin murmured. Then he glanced back at the Elf and wondered if she would _leave_. "Bilbo, ghivashel, you understand these damned Elves. You must help me, with your clever mind and your clever words. Gimli begins this folly, and I must learn to understand them all too late."

The old Hobbit tottered to a small bench and sat down, pulling a blanket over his knees and looking up at the Elf expectantly. "Well? I don't have forever, you know! Let's taste them!"

"Patience, Master Bilbo!" she said, smiling. "Would you like tea?"

"Oh certainly, certainly," he said, folding his hands together on his lap. "Only I hope you're not expecting me to get up again."

She laughed aloud and stood herself, moving to where a long thin strut hung over the fire. The strut was Elvish, but the kettle hanging from it was distinctly Hobbitish. Thorin privately considered that the one that he had made was far, far superior in both form and function.

"Is everything well, Lady Arwen?" Bilbo said, leaning forward over the table and peering at the plate of cakes she had brought. "You don't seem to smile as often as you used to do, if you'll pardon my saying: I think that's the first time I've heard you laugh for over a month."

She paused in moving the strut to sit above the flames, and then she sighed. "I worry," she said.

"Ah," Bilbo said, blinking in realisation. "Oh, you shouldn't worry, my dear! He'll be perfectly all right, you'll see. He's such a very impressive warrior after all, and fiercer than a – a- a Hobbit!"

She smiled again. "And few things in this world are fiercer than a Hobbit, Master Bilbo. Still, I do not fear for his safety so much as I do his heart. He wavers between what he must do, and what he would do."

Bilbo's eyebrows rose. "Does he? Does he now? Well, I suppose it could be taken that way. Do you think this Quest will make him shirk his duty?"

"No," she said immediately. "He has never forsaken his duty. But he would hide from himself and his destiny forever, if he could. And that way lies darkness and grief for us both."

Thorin looked between the Hobbit and the Elf, frowning.

"Why?" Bilbo asked, giving in to temptation and taking one of the little cakes from under the covered tray. "Why renounce his destiny?"

"He is afraid," Arwen sighed, and she turned her head to gaze at the kettle sitting above the flickering flames. "He fears the weakness of his line; that he will succumb to the same flaw that felled Isildur."

Bilbo's nose wrinkled, and he swallowed a mouthful of the cake hurriedly. "Well, that's a load of old pish and tosh, if you'll allow an old Northfarthing saying," he said in his most important manner, and Thorin could not help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Bilbo was still Bilbo, no matter how many years passed. "Aragorn is a good man and a mighty warrior. He's not his ancestor! I do hope you reassured him."

"I did. I do not think he heard me."

"Ah, well, in my experience, it takes quite a bit for Kings to hear you the first time 'round," Bilbo said, nodding firmly and taking an emphatic bite of his cake.

Thorin's eyebrow rose, and then he muttered, "impertinent Hobbit."

Then he blinked. "Wait, _Aragorn?"_

Bilbo snorted. "Let me tell you something or two about the weaknesses of lines and fears and Kings and all the rest, my dear. Aragorn fears his legacy, and that is a _good_ thing. It's when they ignore the bad that comes with all the glory that it becomes dangerous, and he's never been the type, has he?"

Arwen shook her head.

"This Elf-woman – this Arwen – is the Undómiel that Aragorn speaks of?" Thorin said in dawning wonder and confusion. "He is a Man, and she an Elf... and wait a moment, what do you mean _ignore the bad?_ What type? You infuriating creature, are you being slyly insulting? _Again?_ "

Bilbo leaned back upon his bench cushion and sighed. "He'll do fine, Lady Arwen," he said, his cracked voice wavering. "Better than... well. You'll see. He won't fall into any nasty traps laid for him by generations past. Aragorn has been a ranger and a soldier, a man of the people, a _commoner_. He has hidden his name and his ancestry from all and sundry. He doesn't announce his eminence. He doesn't _want_ to be King. So he'll probably make a jolly good one."

Thorin sat down heavily next to his Hobbit, his mind awhirl. "Bilbo. Have you always thought thus?"

Bilbo sighed again and his fingers shredded idly at his little cake. "I... I don't mean to insult anyone. Only that that is what I see."

"You see much, my One," said Thorin, his heart sinking into his boots.

"How do you know all this, Master Bilbo?" Arwen said, looking up from the fire. "I have seen many lives of trees come and go, and yet I know less of Kings and their fears than you do."

Bilbo's eyes dropped. "I knew a King," he mumbled. "Three, in fact!"

"A King of Dwarves," she said, lifting the kettle from the strut and bringing it to the pot. "A King of Men, and a King of Elves."

"Yes, that's right," he said, and he took a bite of his cake to keep from answering.

Arwen obviously knew this tactic, and so she busied herself with making the tea as Bilbo finished his mouthful. When he could no longer pretend to be eating, she looked up expectantly. "Did they confide in you?"

"In me!" Bilbo laughed, though it was a little forced. "If you think King Thranduil had anything personal to say to me, I do wonder if you haven't been tra-la-la-lallying a little too much."

"Master Bilbo," she said gently, and put her fine-boned hand upon his arm. He looked down at it, and then his eyes softened with old, old regret.

"I think he became fond of me, yes," he said after a pause. "We didn't have the most... auspicious start, shall we say? At any rate, eventually we came to a sort of companionship. I was no Dwarf, and so I expect I was a safe confidant. He spoke to me about the glory of his home and his people, how he needed to save them. He would do anything to save them. He spoke of the marvels he would build. He wanted so much for them. He wanted desperately to reclaim his heritage and his birthright."

"I did," Thorin said blankly. "Yes, I did."

"It was later that I discovered that pride in a family heritage can do harm as well as good," Bilbo said heavily, his old voice cracking around the words. "Much later."

Thorin swallowed hard and tried to recall his mother's words. His guilt served no-one. He must look for the good that came from his life as well as the bad.

"Still, it was deserved, that pride," Bilbo continued, his eyes unfocusing, looking back eighty years into the past. There was a soft, regretful longing in his old face. "He was such a powerful and determined Dwarf, stately and single-minded. He loved his people so very much; loved them with all the fierceness of a firestorm, blazing and all-consuming and devastating. To be under his protection and in his good graces was to be a million feet tall and riding the waves of that storm."

"Flatterer," Thorin said, his mouth twitching. "You and your silver tongue, Burglar."

Bilbo abruptly chuckled. "Oh goodness, he had such a temper. He could snap just like one of the turtles of the Brandywine River when he was cross, and he was cross an awful lot! And just like a turtle, he had a shell that was nearly impossible to get through. He had endured so much, and he was ever so sad sometimes, but nothing stopped him. Nothing could ever have stopped him, nothing. He was as implacable as the tides. He never forgot, and he never forgave." Bilbo let out a long, silent breath, and his chest fell. "Still. His smile was so rare, and it was even more wonderful for its rarity. Oh, and that splendid voice. I wish you had heard him sing. He could have convinced the dead to follow him."

Arwen's fingers tightened comfortingly around his arm. "Bilbo," she said. "I know that look in an eye. I see it in my mirror every morning."

"You don't have to say it out loud, thank you," Bilbo sniffed rather primly. "At any rate, he loved his people; Aragorn loves his people. He loved his homeland; Aragorn loves his homeland. Erebor was laid waste by a dragon. Gondor is besieged by Mordor. He was proud and strong and mighty, the scion of a long and noble line. Aragorn is also a proud, strong and mighty scion of a long and noble line. The difference is, Aragorn knows his weaknesses, and Thorin would have eaten hot coals before admitting his."

Hearing his use-name in Bilbo's mouth after so long was like a punch to the chest.

"I know them now, Bilbo, my dearest," he said through numb lips. "How could I not, when they cost me all? I would show you how I have learned, how I have changed, âzyungel. I would recite them all for you if it would make you happy."

"I fear he will never find the greatness within him," said Arwen, and she lowered her head, her neck arching, the curve of it as strong as steel and as graceful and delicate as a faun's. "I fear he will always keep his true essence stifled."

"All that is gold does not glitter," Bilbo murmured, and his expression grew distant and melancholy. "I wrote that, you know, for the Dúnedan. One of my best, I feel."

"I have not heard it," said Thorin, and he lifted his hand to trace the lines that spiderwebbed around Bilbo's bright eyes. "Would you speak it for me?"

"I have heard it," said Arwen, and she lifted her dark head. All her worry and fear flickered in her beautiful face. "It speaks of no darkness nor doom, and that all our hopes will come to pass. It would bring me comfort. Would you?"

"If you like," Bilbo said, and cleared his throat:

"All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
The crownless again shall be king."

"Not all those who wander are lost," Thorin repeated, and he bowed his head. So many mistakes, so many regrets. "Bilbo Baggins, how I wish..."

"You do not think of Aragorn when you speak," said Arwen. "Your eyes, Master Periannath. They do not look upon the present."

"It could mean another, I suppose," Bilbo conceded, and he took a sip of his tea to hide his face. "I do wish..."

"You loved him," Arwen said softly.

"Hobbits don't approve of such things," Bilbo said roughly, his face still in his cup. "And I did mention that you didn't have to say it out loud."

"You loved me," said Thorin, reverent as a prayer. He had known – had known for long years – but to hear it, see it in Bilbo's face... His ribs tightened unbearably around his aching heart, and his stomach churned. "Bilbo, my own, my brave bright little soul. You truly did love me."

Bilbo didn't answer aloud, but his head gave a single, slow nod. Then he stuffed the remainder of the cake into his mouth and would not speak.

Thorin closed his eyes.

* * *

Grasping Frerin by the wrist, Thorin charged down the tunnels of the Halls of Mahal towards the Chamber of Sansûkhul. "Thorin, what-" Frerin blurted, yanked along behind him.

"Come with me," Thorin growled.

"Well, not like I have much choice at this particular moment, is there? Care to tell me what the problem is?"

"You will see," he said darkly. His stomach still churned from that morning's visit with Bilbo. A meal was out of the question.

"Can you at least let go a little? I think I'm losing the circulation in my hand..."

Thorin let go of Frerin and kept striding towards the Chamber. Frerin rubbed at his wrist for a few moments, before racing to catch up. "All right, it's something bad then. Something bad has happened. _Really_ bad. Are we talking Smaug-sized bad? _Azanulbizar_ bad?"

"No," Thorin said, and a little of his black mood lifted. "No, it is nothing so severe."

"But still bad," Frerin prompted. His braids were mussed from his undignified journey through the Halls.

"Yes," Thorin said grimly. "It is still bad."

"Hang on, they were in Lothlórien, right?"

"Correct. They are still in Lothlórien."

"So – Elves then?"

"Your powers of deduction never fail to underwhelm," Thorin grunted.

"Nasty, brother. Has anyone ever told you that you turn cruel when you're worried?"

Thorin stopped and rounded on Frerin, glaring at him. "No, they have not."

Frerin rolled his eyes, entirely unintimidated. "Oh right - King and everything. Well, you turn very vicious, just so you know."

Thorin pressed his finger against Frerin's chest and opened his mouth to retort, when a memory struck him so fiercely he nearly buckled. _He's been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come. He has no place amongst us._

His hand dropped. "Yes, perhaps you have a point," he murmured. "Perhaps it is a weakness in me."

"I do?" Frerin blinked. And then he pulled himself up to his full height. "Right. Yes, of _course_ I do."

Turning back to lead the way to the Chamber, Thorin snorted. "Don't labour the point, brother."

"But I _had_ one! You can't deny it now!" Frerin crowed, and he fell into step beside Thorin. "So what is it you're snapping and snarling about this time?"

The anger bubbled beneath his skin, but Thorin reined it back tightly. "Gimli," he said, and then clenched his jaw shut.

Frerin made an inelegant noise. "Well, of _course_ Gimli. What about him?"

Thorin shot him a suspicious look. "Have you been speaking to Grandmother?"

"No, should I?" Frerin looked genuinely puzzled. "You're being very cagey, nadad."

"I have reason." Thorin ushered Frerin through the diamond-and-pearl arch of the Chamber, and he tugged his little brother closer as they took the bench that was now irrevocably Thorin's and no-one else's. "Come, I will show you."

"No more yanking my arm," Frerin said stubbornly as the stars began their slow and mesmerising dance beneath the surface of the dark water. They almost seemed to float from the depths to swirl and bob before the eyes of the watchers, their radiance increasing before it enveloped them entirely.

They were whirled into the light and released into another warm, sunlit glade. Frerin looked around and his shoulders relaxed. "Well, doesn't look dangerous."

"You say that now," Thorin said in a dark tone, before he heard the sound of approaching voices.

"...took such offense! You would have enjoyed the look on his face."

"I cannot believe your audacity. Did you truly carve such a message into the very peak of Erebor?"

"Aye, and it stands there still. Lóni always grumbled when anyone brought it up."

A peculiar pair they made as they entered the clearing. Legolas was tall and fair and clad in silver-green, his feet making barely any sound as he moved through the lush grass. His pale hair was unbraided and he did not carry his bow nor his knives. Gimli's fiery hair was loosely threaded with his golden beads and clasps, but his beard had again been bound in its travelling braids. Wisps escaped the braids where the locks were cut close. He stumped through the glade in his sleeveless russet and blue tunic, and his powerful arms, each as thick as the Elf's thigh, were for once bare of armour.

Gimli had lost flesh on the journey, Thorin noticed, though he had gained yet more muscle. The privations of travel and battle began to take their toll.

"This looks like a fine place for a pipe," Gimli said, looking up at the towering mallorn with a faint smile. Legolas pulled a face.

"I don't know how you stand the smell of that stuff."

"T'is an acquired taste, I'll grant you," Gimli laughed. "But the Hobbits and Aragorn also smoke and so you cannot blame Dwarvish obstinacy for this one."

"Oh, can I not?" Legolas mocked, and he sprang onto a fallen log and began to walk it as easily as a spider walks its web.

Gimli sat upon one end of the log and began to pack his pipe. "Well, perhaps you can tell me a few tales yourself as I smoke. The Lord Celeborn is your kinsman, you said?"

Legolas' merry expression grew solemn. "Yes. He was also of Doriath."

Gimli froze, his pipe halfway to his mouth. "Oh."

An uncomfortable pause settled over the glade, and then Legolas sighed loudly. "We are always going to stumble over painful topics, are we not?"

Gimli let his pipe drift back to his lap, and he nodded. "Most likely. Still, as long as we are honest..."

"You must tell me if I offend you," Legolas said earnestly.

"Aye, and likewise." Gimli sighed as well, and then he began to light his pipe with a scowl. "This friendship will not always be easy, Legolas."

"Friendship?!" Frerin said, and he gaped.

"That is what I meant to show you," Thorin said, his jaw clenching and unclenching and his breath coming fast through his nose.

Frerin turned to him with shock and wonder in his eyes. "But that... this is a good thing, right? Elf and Dwarf, friends again after so many long centuries."

"You are naive," Thorin snapped. "A _good_ thing, you say?"

"Well, I fail to see a downside," Frerin said and he stuck his chin out. "And Gimli is no unimportant Dwarf. He is a Lord's son, and this Elf is the Prince of the Woodland realm – Thorin, this could change everything!"

_Our fierce young star has his own part to play in this. He is a Dwarrow alone, and yet I feel that he is about to step into something that will change the Khazâd forever. _

Mahal's words sprang to Thorin's mind, and he swallowed his answer, glowering at the unlikely pair with worry and suspicion. "You know what happens when Elves fall out with Dwarves," he muttered. "This will not last."

"Cynic," Frerin shot back. "I thought you trusted Gimli more than that."

"I believe in Gimli," Thorin growled. "It is the Elf I cannot trust."

"Yes, yes, he's an Elf, he's Thranduil's son, I know the whole litany," Frerin said dismissively, and he turned back to watch the two.

"In the interests of honesty," Legolas said, reluctance in every syllable, "I feel I should tell you something. You will not like it."

Gimli peered up at him, his hair sliding down over one bare and brawny shoulder. His coming-of-age tattoos were very dark against the pale skin of his shoulder that so rarely saw the sunlight. "Should I brace myself?" he said dryly.

Legolas winced. "Perhaps. But I beg you, do not go for your axes!"

"Now I am _really_ concerned," Gimli said, and he took a pull of his pipe. "Well, let it out laddie, before you burst."

"I was in the party that captured the Company of Thorin Oakenshield eighty years ago," Legolas said in a rush. "I was the leader."

Gimli blinked. "For some reason, that wasn't what I was expecting you to say," he said. "So, you captured my father's band?"

Legolas nodded, his face stricken.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that. I'm not going to go for my axes," said Gimli. "No, I'm not happy about it, but what can I do here and now?"

Legolas slumped in relief.

"Sit down, Elf," Gimli commanded, and he took another pull on his pipe before fixing Legolas with a stern look. "If we are to be honest, then we cannot dance around these painful things. They happened, and there's no denying them. You captured my father and his companions and wrongly imprisoned them. Well, there it is. I knew that before, I simply didn't know it was at your hands."

"I drew my bow upon your King and threatened his life," Legolas said, and sighed again. "I took a locket from your father."

Gimli raised an eyebrow. "You took 'adad's locket? No wonder he's not your greatest admirer. Well, I suppose I spoke too soon when I was chatting to Master Frodo all those weeks ago. There _is_ one of our party who has seen me with my beard half-grown. How did you like my portrait?"

Legolas jerked. "That – of course, that was you!"

Gimli chucked. "Aye, who did you think? I would have been, oh, perhaps twenty or so in that picture."

"I insulted your mother," Legolas said, and he covered his face as the tips of his sharp ears reddened.

"You rascal!" Gimli sat up straighter. "Insult my mother? What in Durin's name did you say?"

"I... may have insinuated that she was ugly," Legolas said, muffled by his palms.

Gimli blinked, and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Legolas' head emerged from his hands, and he looked vaguely offended. "Why do you laugh? I tell you, I insulted your mother!"

"And what a ridiculous insult it was," Gimli said, wiping at his eyes. "Lad, my mother is a famous beauty."

Legolas' mouth dropped open slightly, and then he began to laugh as well. "I see I have made something of a fool of myself," he said merrily.

"Aye, well," Gimli said, and he shook his head. "Better to be a fool and know it than continue being foolish in ignorance. Y'know, my sister looks so like my mother did in her youth that it is uncanny, although her hair is the same colour as mine and 'adad's. It's quite the sight. She never unbinds it usually, for when she does it reaches below her knees."

Legolas smiled, and his eyes were alight with gratitude at the easy forgiveness and the change of topic. "Elves love long hair. We make our bowstrings from Elf-hair, you know."

"You never!" Gimli sat forward. "Does it not break?"

"No, no," Legolas said. "It is stronger than it appears, and light and thin. What colour is your nephew's hair?"

"Ah! That little scamp is a darker red than I, with his father's light brown eyes. My wild little warrior! I wonder how tall he is now?"

"How long does it take a Dwarf to reach adulthood?" Legolas asked, and he leaned back and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Oh, we come of age at seventy. That's when I got these," Gimli said, and he tapped at his shoulder with the bowl of his pipe. He did not flinch at the temperature, being long-accustomed to the scorching heat of the iron-ore smelters.

"I have not seen so many tattoos before," Legolas said, and he peered curiously at the black sigils and patterns inked over Gimli's massive shoulders. "What if you have a change of heart?"

Gimli chuckled. "Well, you're stuck wi' it, aren't you? That's why we are made to draw them on with gall-ink every day for a month before they are made permanent. That way we've plenty of time to back out. Your people do not make such markings, do they?"

"No. Some Elves use paints, but I seldom wear them." Legolas looked up at Gimli for permission, and upon his nod he touched the tattoo with one forefinger. "Did it hurt?"

"It wasn't an ale and a pipe and a jolly song, no," said Gimli dryly.

"Do you have any mourning-marks?"

"Three." Gimli lowered his eyes, and Legolas flinched a little before he delicately moved on in his questioning.

"So, this is for your coming of age. You were full-grown when you were marked?"

"Aye, mostly. A mite less tall and broad than I am now, and certainly not as strong. We grow tougher as we get older, y'see. Still, everyone is different. I came to my height later than many other Longbeards. My young cousin Wee Thorin is only thirty-seven, and he's near as tall as his father Dwalin already."

"That name may need adjusting then," Legolas said, smiling.

"Balin and Óin are going to have apoplexy, and Father is going to spontaneously combust," Frerin whispered, staring at Gimli in horror.

Thorin did not answer. He had his head in his hands.

Gimli's laugh was easy and relaxed. "Ach, he can't get away from it now, poor lad, not after all these years. Named after that King you mentioned, y'know. Dwalin was of the Company as well."

"Was he the one with the yellow hair and the braids in his moustache?"

Gimli's breath caught and then he said. "No. That was Fíli. Dwalin is far taller, with a bald head and tattoos on his pate and knuckles."

"Oh, _that_ one," Legolas said and he shook his head. "He gave us a truly astonishing amount of trouble."

"Maybe you should tell him that. It'd please him no end."

Legolas smiled again, and then he looked up at Gimli. "The blond one, Fíli – he was one of those who died. One of the cousins you mentioned. Merry reminds you of him."

"That's right," Gimli said, and took a puff of his pipe.

"His brother... the young one with the wild grin..."

"Kíli."

"Kíli. He and my friend Tauriel had some understanding of each other." Legolas' eyes grew distant. "I thought her mad, at the time."

"They were very young," Gimli said, and he tapped out his pipe against his boot. "Very young indeed. Kíli was only seventy-seven, and Fíli just five years older. It seems strange to me today. I am now near twice Kíli's age when he died, and yet I'll always feel like that young and foolish Dwarrow scurrying at their heels in the poverty of Ered Luin. Who is Tauriel?"

Legolas' eyes tightened. "Was."

"Oh, Mahal's bloody hammer, I'm sorry lad. My turn to put my foot in my mouth. She is gone, then?"

"Yes. She died after the Battle of Five Armies," Legolas said, and his head fell back. "My father was fond of her, and raised her beside me. My elder brothers would call her our pîn gwathel, or little sister. She was a fierce fighter, and unlike most wood-elves her hair was near as red as yours." He paused. "It was Tauriel who believed that the fight and plight of the Dwarves was ours as well. My father was not pleased at breaking our long isolation."

"He broke it willingly enough for the Lake-men, especially when there was gold to be gained from our deaths," Thorin muttered. Frerin shushed him.

"Enough, Thorin," he said. "You have chewed over those particular old bones until they are picked clean and as thin as thread. Let it go, yes?"

"Never," Thorin grated, and he glared at Thranduil's son.

"You are such a ray of sunshine, big brother," Frerin grumbled. "Blame yourself, blame the Elves, blame Men, blame the fates, but Mahal forbid you ever try to move on."

Thorin ignored him and turned back to Gimli. The younger Dwarf also leaned back upon the log once he had tucked his pipe in his jerkin, and gazed up at the achingly blue sky with wondering, serene eyes.

"Beautiful," he said quietly. "I never thought I could feel such peace in a land of Elves."

"The power of the Lady holds all of Lothlórien in safety," said Legolas. "Perhaps that is what you feel."

"I do not doubt it, cousin," came the low, pure voice of the Lady herself. Galadriel stepped into the glade on bare white feet, her dress snagging in the blades of grass behind her. "For Gimli son of Glóin feels many things, both the seen and the unseen."

Both Legolas and Gimli sprang to their feet. "Híril nín," said Legolas, bowing low. Gimli gazed up at her with starry eyes, his heart in his face.

"My lady," he said, and then he lowered his head with utter respect.

"Rise," she said, and her hand gently landed upon Gimli's hair, turning his face up towards her once more. He swallowed hard, and another wisp came loose from his braids. "Ah, you have been mourning, I see. Do not let your hearts linger too long in sadness. It does not do to spend too much time with the dead."

"Aye," Gimli said in a faltering voice.

"Is he going to _faint?"_ Frerin whispered. "And who's the new Elf?"

"That is the Lady of the Golden Wood," Thorin whispered back. Frerin swallowed back a gasp, and he began to bite down upon his lip.

"Well. She's not quite what the old tales make her out to be."

It was Thorin's turn to hush his brother.

"Tolo," Galadriel said, and gestured to them both. "I have been seeking you, Gimli, for there is something I sense, something I wish to know. Yet I would not presume to know all the secrets of Dwarves. Tell me, Durin's son, will you look into my mirror?"

"A mirror?" Gimli looked puzzled and he turned to Legolas with his confusion written all over him.

Legolas' face went lax and blank. Thorin was beginning to recognise this as an indication of shock and not a sign of unfeeling. "You would have him look, Lady?"

"If he will, Legolas Greenleaf," she said without turning back. Her feet scarcely crushed the grass as she walked. She barely even seemed of the earth: an ancient fey spirit come to enchant them. "It is not far."

"What's all this then?" Gimli hissed, and Legolas shot him a warning look and began to follow the Lady through the winding paths between the huge boles of silver trees. Gimli twiddled his fingers together for a moment, before he made an inarticulate noise of defeat and scurried after them.

"What mirror?" Frerin wondered.

"Some Elf-sorcery, no doubt," Thorin said, and he drew close to Gimli. "This Lady can test others with her gaze alone. She can measure the hopes and the dreams of their hearts. I do not trust her."

"Gimli does," Frerin pointed out.

"Gimli also spills secrets faster than a drunkard spills ale," Thorin growled. "He is a far more open-hearted Dwarrow than I."

"Oh, how you shock me, brother," said Frerin dryly.

Galadriel led them to a small hollow between the great trees, where shallow steps had been formed of the tree roots and slabs of pale grey rock. In the middle of the depression sat a plinth, and upon it was set a large silver basin. Water trickled with a merry little gurgle to a small pool at the furthest side of the hollow.

"Here is the Mirror of Galadriel," she said, and she took up a silvery pitcher and filled it with water from the stream. "I cannot tell you what it is you will see, for the Mirror will show you what it will."

"Well, pardon my saying, Lady, but that's not terribly helpful," Gimli said, planting his feet apart and squinting up at her. He looked so painfully Dwarvish in that fashion, his arms banded with thick muscle and tattoos and his hair wild and his beard fierce. It made Thorin want to cheer.

"There's a proper Dwarrow," Frerin said approvingly. "I haven't seen him spin his axe in over thirty years, y'know."

"You have a treat in store for you," Thorin said, gazing with pride at his star. "He is the finest axeman I have ever seen."

Galadriel smiled. "The Mirror can see what is gone, what is present and what may come to pass. Will you look?"

Gimli hesitated. "Why me, Lady?"

"Because you are surrounded by voices, Gimli of Erebor," she said cryptically. "But it must be your choice."

Gimli glanced between her and Legolas, and then he lifted his chin. "Aye. I'll look then. No doubt I'll see nothing but the trees and sky above, but it can't hurt to try, eh?"

She laughed. "No, it will not hurt." She poured the water from her pitcher into the basin in one long, clear fall. The water seemed almost like a shining silver ribbon. "Do not touch the water," she murmured as she stepped back.

Gimli swallowed again, and then moved beside the plinth. "Bit tall, this," he grumbled to himself. He span, frowning, and spotting a likely rock he hefted it to the side of the plinth to stand on.

"Can you see now, mellon nín?" Legolas said.

"Aye, I can... what, wait? That's Ered Luin! Why, there's my father, and his hair has not yet turned white!"

Thorin's pulse began to pound. "He sees the past?"

"Óin, Balin, Lóni, Náli, Ori, Frár... oh, my friends, my friends!" Gimli choked. "Oh, why do you show me this?"

"He must see the past," Frerin said, frowning.

"Wait... the scene changes," Gimli said, breath catching. "Why am I on a ship? Dwarves do not belong on ships. I will be seasick, no doubt. Here, that tunnel... I do not like the look of that tunnel. I have never seen it before, and yet it chills me to my marrow!"

"What tunnel? What ship?" Frerin pressed a hand to his head. "What is to happen to Gimli?"

"Legolas, you are in this mirror! You ride a grey horse – wait, I am on the back! Ugh, I dinnae look forward to that. I am not fond of riding. Who is that Man? Ach, this Mirror jumps from picture to picture like a frog on a hot rock!"

"I do not know," Thorin said, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. "A ship, a horse, the Elf, a tunnel, a Man... I do not understand any of this."

Suddenly Gimli roared, " _Erebor_! No, no – Erebor is under siege! Erebor is at war! A mighty host of orcs crowds its flanks!"

"Be calm," Galadriel said softly. "It may not come to pass."

"No, oh no," Gimli breathed, his eyes stricken. Then he drew up straighter as presumably the scene changed once more. "A tree? A dead tree. Must ask the Elf about dead trees. Now, what's this...?"

Abruptly Thorin could feel a tugging at his breastbone, a small but insistent pull that suddenly became a fierce and jolting wrench.

"No, it cannot be," Gimli said in disbelief, and then he looked straight into Thorin's eyes. "Thorin Oakenshield."

"Ah," the Lady murmured. "Then that is what I sensed."

"I do not understand," Thorin said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "Gimli – you can see me? In this Elvish mirror?"

"You are Thorin son of Thráin, called Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain," Gimli said, and he was still looking straight into Thorin's eyes somehow. After eighty years of being glanced over and looked through, to have his star meet his eyes was stunning, an earthquake in his heart. Was Thorin in the Mirror? Did Gimli truly _see_ him?

"I have not known you since I was small, and you have been dead for many years, Lord," said Gimli respectfully, his brows drawing together. "Yet of all the pictures I have seen, you speak to me."

"Aye, I am dead," Thorin rasped, pierced to the core by those eyes finally – _finally -_ upon his, and without his conscious control his hand drifted up to reach for Gimli's bright hair.

It still passed through, and he tore his hand away with an anguished oath. Still, he would make the most of the opportunity. He had learned. He would not repeat the mistakes of his life and leave the important words unsaid.

"Gimli," he said, fervent and low, "we are gone from Arda, but not gone for good. I have watched over you since my fall, cousin, and your strength and fire and laughter have saved me from fading into the dark embrace of guilt and despair. You are loved, my fierce star." He set his jaw and forced himself to keep his eyes upon Gimli's, dark and deep and full of life. "I am proud of you, my champion." He took a deep shaking breath, and his tone dropped to nearly a sigh. "Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu."

Gimli's eyes widened, and then the strange spell passed.

"What did you see?" Legolas asked anxiously. "Are you well?"

"I am well enough," Gimli said, blinking dazedly. "Give me a moment!"

"Thorin?" said Frerin, worry in his voice, and for a brief confused moment Thorin could not tell where he was or even which way was up. Then a hand landed on his shoulder and Frerin was drawing him close. "Thorin! You _flickered._ I've never seen anything... are you all right?"

"I am dead," Thorin mumbled, his head aching and spinning. His eyes blurred. "Define 'all right'."

Finally Gimli lifted his head, frowning in bewilderment. "Why... why did I see my kinsman, long laid to rest in the Halls of our Ancestors, and why did he speak? What manner of mirror is this?"

"Do not be afraid, Gimli," Galadriel said in her sweet, mellifluous voice, and the Elf-woman bent down to him and brushed a stray lock of red hair from his brow. "The Mirror cannot harm you."

"I'm not harmed, nor am I afraid," said Gimli quickly. "Just..."

"You have been blessed, Child of Aulë," she continued, smiling gently. "I know what it is you saw, and you have been blessed beyond measure. The voices that surround you are those of your kin."

"My kin...!" Gimli nearly fell off the rock. "You mean, all this time I have been mourning them and they've been _watching me!"_

"They cannot reach you," she said, and straightened to send a brief but significant look to Legolas. "They cling close to you, near as thought, but they cannot be seen nor heard by the living. Through the power and grace gifted to me long ago I could feel the presence that embraces you, that fierce love surrounding you, and I could sense the voices though I did not hear their words. I do not know how or why they stay with you, Gimli, but the care that swathes you is powerful and devoted."

"His voice," Gimli said, lost and dazed, "I know it. I know that voice, nearly as well as I know my own. It seems I have been listening to it forever."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "You know more of him than you realise."

Gimli's face grew vulnerable and awed. "He said. He said I was loved. He called me star. He called me..."

"Thorin, you really don't look well," Frerin said. Thorin pushed away from him, staggering drunkenly, his gaze fixed on Gimli. Gimli who _knew._

"He knows," Thorin said. "He knows. Frerin, he _knows."_

"Aye," Frerin's young face broke into a smile. "He knows."

"Gimli," Thorin managed, lurching further towards his star. His vision smudged. His legs felt rubbery and weak. "Gimli. _Gimli," -_ and then the stars swallowed him whole and tore him away and he was sent reeling and spiralling into the blinding, whirling galaxies of Gimlîn-zâram.

* * *

Thorin blinked awake with a groan. His eyes felt gummy, and his head ached. He was staring at the ceiling of his chamber.

His head _really_ ached.

"...overdoing it," said a gruff voice. Óin. "He needs t' take more rest."

"Idiot boy," said Thráin with worry in his tone, and someone sat on the end of the bed and laid a comforting hand on his shin.

"Thorin," said Frís gently. "Thorin, I know you're awake, I saw your eyes move. "Come, sit up, inùdoy. We have food here."

"How many..." Thorin mumbled, and she swam into view. Her braids were slightly mussed.

"Frerin roused the whole of the Halls with his squawking. Apparently no-one has ever fainted in the Pool before."

Thorin's heart sank. "Wonderful."

"No, don't be embarrassed, it's all right. Everyone now knows what you do every day, and how important the Quest in Arda is. It is the talk of every Dwarrow," Frís said, and she smoothed his covers down over the rise of his chest. "Here, try to sit up."

Thorin tried to restrain his groan as he struggled to sit up, and failed. Óin came bustling forward, pushing aside Fíli and Kíli as he did so. "Your head? Thought so. Hold on, take this." A cup of something hot that smelled vaguely like willow bark was put before his nose, and Thorin fumbled for it and drank it with smarting eyes. The pain eased.

"You must learn to delegate, son," Thráin said from where he stood, holding back Thorin's nephews. "You cannot keep on like this."

"No, I was fine. It was the Elf-woman's mirror," Thorin croaked. Thráin shook his head.

"We know. Frerin has told every level of the Halls."

Frerin grimaced. "Sorry. I was a bit excited."

"I spoke to our Maker," Óin said, laying a professional hand against Thorin's brow. "The mirror would not have harmed you so if you weren't already exhausted. And you haven't been at table often, so no doubt you do not eat either, y' stubborn mule."

Thorin's head was easier, but it still pounded. He pressed his brow against Óin's palm, the pressure easing it further. "What is the point of such things? I am _dead_!"

"He's probably still upset about Gimli," whispered Frerin from the back of the room. His blue eyes were wide.

"Aye, dead to Middle-Earth, you fool," Óin said, and took his hand away to glare down at his King. "But your body here and now is a body remade, or had you forgotten? We _live_ here in the Halls. You are alive, you great regal idiot!"

Thorin struggled upright. "Then why the endless waiting? Why may we not truly live? Why could I not touch him?"

"Shhh," said Frís, and she helped him up and arranged his covers around his hips. "We wait for the Second Music, my dear, when we will finally be fully accepted. We wait to be given a place of our own in the world to come. You know this."

"First we've got to get through Dagor Dagorath though," added Fíli.

"That's going to be fun," said Kíli sourly.

"But, Arda – the Ring, the power that grows there..."

"Aye, it's important, but so are you," said Óin, and he gave the back of Thorin's shoulder a light thwack. "You great idiot. An immortal body, an' you've found new ways in which to ruin it. Why did I follow you again?"

"That makes you the greater idiot," Thorin managed, and he gave Óin a glower. The healer ignored it blithely. "If I am so eternal then why the fuss?"

Óin sighed loudly, his eyes rolling. "Look, we died, yes? An' we woke up here, wearing these bodies. But they're not immutable, and so it follows that we are not invulnerable. We eat, sleep, bleed, grow tired, burn ourselves at the forge, do all the things we did in our lives upon Arda, but we have been renewed and remade. My hair is the colour it was when I was one hundred an' twenty, an' your father doesn't look a day over one hundred and eighty. We go back to the age at which we were our best selves, Thorin."

Thorin fell back against his pillows, his head hammering and throbbing. "I am still..."

"Aye," said Óin eventually, and he smiled. "Still my King."

"I do not think the last year of my life was my best," Thorin muttered darkly, and Óin hit him again.

"Sorry, I thought I heard someone insultin' my King. I'll be hittin' anyone who does that," he said, and his eyes twinkled.

"Such loyalty," Thorin said, and softly snorted.

"So, what was it about that Mirror that made you come over all Hobbity, anyway?" asked Kíli. Fíli immediately elbowed him in the ribs.

"He saw me, Gimli saw me," Thorin said, and he reached out. Fíli grasped his hand. "He saw me, but I could not touch him. He heard me – he knows!"

"Calm down, nidoy," Thráin said, and tugged at one of Thorin's braids. "Here, eat. And rest. If you attempt to go to those waters in the next twenty-four hours, I will sit on you, don't think I won't."

"But-"

"Must I order you, inùdoy?" Thráin said, his eyebrows rising. Thorin huffed in frustration.

"'Adad, events move swiftly now. Gimli, the Fellowship... he knows, Adad, and I cannot," he broke off, unable to find the words. "And then there is Erebor, and Bilbo." Bilbo. _Bilbo._ "It moves so fast, and Aragorn, and Boromir – I should be there, my Gift is needed. I cannot be so selfish again."

Bilbo had said his name for the first time in eighty years, and it had shaken Thorin to his core. Bilbo had loved him, even cruel and distant as he had been. Thorin's grip tightened reflexively on Fíli's hand, and his nephew's face softened and he squeezed back comfortingly.

"Strength, Uncle," he said softly.

"That is the nature of events, Thorin," Frís said. "They sometimes dawdle, and sometimes race. You will catch up again when you have your strength. Selflessness is not sacrifice, my son."

"But-" It was both comforting and infuriating that, after a century of life as the highest authority and sole leader of his people, his parents were suddenly there to take the reins from him. It made Thorin grasp for them. "Gimli knows! And he is still surrounded by... 'Amad, he has held out his hand in friendship to that Elf!"

"If you think there is any in the Halls who have not heard about Gimli Glóinul and the Elf," Frís said dryly, "you severely underestimate your brother."

Frerin flushed and hid his face behind his golden hair.

"I should be there for him," Thorin said, his stubbornness welling up in his chest. Then he yawned.

"Because you're in such fine shape, o'course," Óin said, folding his arms and fixing Thorin with a level look. "Now, don't you fret about my daft-headed nephew. He'll have eyes on him, mark my words!"

"Óin isn't pleased about the Elf," said Fíli in an undertone.

"Neither are Balin, Lóni, Nori, Náli, Great-grandfather, Fundin, Gróin, Náin, grandfather, my stupid brother, and oh, practically every other Dwarrow in the Halls," added Kíli sardonically.

"But Ori, Bifur, Frerin, Frár, Great-grandmother, and my stupid brother are tickled pink," said Fíli, poking his brother's side. "Still, Grandmother hasn't picked a side yet."

"I do not trust that Elf with my star," Thorin muttered. His head felt too small for the pounding that rattled within it.

"Chalk up another on the 'against' side," said Fíli.

"You, my stubborn child, are going nowhere, so accept the idea," said Frís firmly, and she nudged the tray she had brought in closer to his hand.

Thorin looked up, a protest hanging on his lips. Six determinedly unimpressed pairs of eyes glared back at him.

"Oh, all right," he muttered, and covered his eyes with his free hand.

"Ori and Nori are watching Gimli," Kíli said, and he clumsily patted Thorin's knee. "The Fellowship isn't going anywhere for a few days at the least, it seems. And Hrera is watching Glóin. She said she would have words with you later."

Thorin and Frerin winced in unison.

"Balin is watching over the Stonehelm on his way back to Erebor," said Fíli. "And we'll keep an eye on Erebor and Dáin for you, if you'd like."

Thorin peered out from beneath his fingers up at his nephews, who both looked simultaneously proud and worried, and he felt his heart reach out to them. In his obsession and fear for the Fellowship and Gimli, he had nearly forgotten his nephews, his undayûy. "Here," he said, and pulled Fíli closer by his grip on his hand. "You should stay here, with me."

Fíli looked dubious, but Kíli beamed.

"I'm not sure how conducive these two are t' a good rest," said Óin, but he held up his hands in defeat. "I'm not goin' to stop you, doubt I could if I tried. I'll go stop in on Dáin and Dís, then. I'll let you know how it all goes, aye?" Then he stabbed a thick finger at Thorin. " _Tomorrow."_

Thorin tucked Fíli's golden head under his chin and nodded. "Tomorrow."

Óin gave him a suspicious look, and then he turned away, muttering, "you frighten me when you agree wi' me so easily. You two hellions, make sure he don't leave that bed! Everyone else, let's move out, let the idiot eat in peace."

"Thank you, Óin," Thorin called after him. The raised tone made his head pound some more, and he fell back with a groan.

"You look awful," said Kíli. "Really, really awful. Did the Mirror hurt that much?"

"It was... it was like the stars of Gimlîn-zâram, but instead of being gathered up and released, I was _pulled."_ Thorin rubbed the place over his heart where the Elf-woman's sorcery had torn him into the waking world.

"Has Gimli really made friends with that Elf?" said Fíli quietly.

Thorin's breath hitched, and then he swallowed hard and nodded.

Kíli frowned. "Maybe it'll last. Maybe he's changed."

"It will not last," Thorin spat.

"Dijnu hyadâkh ghivasha," Fíli quoted, and he shook his head. "Urùthûkhikizu hyêmrûr."

Kíli scowled and completed the saying, folding his arms stubbornly; "Ra hurumizu tada khajimuhîzd ana zu."

"Just because you've got a soft spot for Elves," Fíli said heatedly.

"One," Thorin counted silently.

"It could change everything!" Kíli shot back.

"Two."

"Yes, for the worse! Poor Gimli, at least he has the excuse of being surrounded by Elves without a single living Dwarrow for company. Not like you!"

Upon 'three', Kíli growled and launched himself at his brother and the two of them began to tussle on the floor of Thorin's chamber. It brought back vivid memories of watching over them in Ered Luin during their childhoods. He sighed, ignoring the pair, and pulled over the tray his mother had left him. Meat and bread and potatoes, covered in a thick sauce, greeted him. His stomach growled.

"Keep the noise down," he commanded them, and began to eat.

* * *

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Tolo - come  
> Mellon nin - my friend  
> Dúnedan - Man of the West (i.e. Númenorean). Bilbo refers to Aragorn by this name in the Chapter, 'Many Meetings'.
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Âzyungel – love of loves  
> Idùzhib - diamond  
> Ghivashel - treasure of treasures  
> Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu – my fiery son of the heart  
> Dijnu hyadâkh ghivasha, urùthûkhikizu hyêmrûr- Trust is a rare treasure, hand it out scarcely  
> ra hurumizu tada khajimuhîzd ana zu. - and honour those that give it to you  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother
> 
> The second music of the Ainur - Before time itself was created, the Valar (Ainur) composed a great music. This music was the world itself with all its history from beginning to end. At a word from Eru Ilúvatar, their music took shape and substance in the void, and so the world was born. Once the first music has run its course and the world is laid waste by Dagor Dagorath, the second theme will be revealed and a new and perfect world take shape. No Vala has any knowledge of what the second music is, only that it will be greater than the first.
> 
> Dagor Dagorath ("Battle of Battles") - According to the second prophecy of Mandos, is said that one day Melkor (Morgoth) will escape his bonds beyond the 'Door of Night'. Melkor, who is now known as Morgoth, was the Ainu who spurned Eru and his part in the first music. All his works turned to darkness, and he was Sauron's master and teacher. He will unleash destruction upon the world. After his death, the Silmarils will be recovered, all the Elves will return, and Arda shall be renewed. The Dwarves believe that they will help their Maker recreate Arda as it was meant to be.
> 
> _Thank you so much for all your reviews and Kudos! I appreciate every single one - thank you so much for taking the time to smack that button and/or letting me know what you think! ._
> 
>   
> [](http://cybermanolo.tumblr.com/post/97686107710/cybersuzy-hi-i-can-finally-post-my-sansukh)  
>  What may happen when Gimli enters the Halls, by [cybermanolo](http://cybermanolo.tumblr.com/post/97686107710/cybersuzy-hi-i-can-finally-post-my-sansukh)  
> 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Thira Queen of Erebor_
> 
>  
> 
> Thira was the daughter of mastersmiths Hori and Theki, both Burned Dwarves of the Battle of Azanulbizar. After the loss of her parents, she made her way as a refugee to the Iron Hills. She arrived young, poor and determined to make a name for herself. Her talent lay in her smithing: Thira was the finest and most skilled steelsmith to emerge from the Iron Hills in decades. Her mail was sought after by all, and she was able to count Kings amongst her clients. One of her greatest works was a brigandine gifted to the King-in-exile, Thorin Oakenshield, as a present from his cousin Dáin.
> 
> Soft-spoken, intensely private, but as true and strong and determined as the steel she loves, Thira is tall, wiry and black-haired with dark skin that has been reddened by her forge over the decades. She met Dáin, the new Lord of the Iron Hills, through her work. He did not recognise his One, due to his great grief and his heavy burden of care after the death of his father and the settling of so many refugees. Thira, however, was patient. She brought him a gift of a new iron foot, set about with cunning straps and workings to make his walking easier. As Dáin walked with new purpose, he was able to recognise the kindness that had prompted such a gift. He began to frequent her workshop more often. They were married in TA 2814, and their son Thorin, called the Stonehelm, was born in 2866. Thira was uncomfortable with her elevation to prominence, especially after the reclamation of Erebor, and mostly stayed in her forges and out of the spotlight. Her shrewd husband accepted this, and sought her advice in privacy.
> 
> * * *

"Soooo," Kíli said, fidgeting.

His Maker sighed, his eyes turning upon the young Dwarrow. "Back again, my child?"

Kíli quaked a little under the weight of that unearthly gaze, and then he chewed upon his lip, drawing himself up. "Well. Yes?"

Mahal laughed softly. Kíli felt it as a quake under his ribcage. "To petition me again, no doubt."

"Well. A bit, yes," Kíli admitted, and sprawled himself by the base of the anvil. He touched it curiously, following the intricate carvings with his fingers. They made words that his mind could not comprehend and shied away from. He had the feeling that nobody, not Dwarf, Man, Elf or Hobbit, could read them. Their heads probably exploded if they did.

"How does your Uncle fare?"

Kíli looked up. "He's recovering," he said, and then he wrinkled his nose. "He got a bit... obsessive. He does that."

"Yes, I know." Mahal brought out something that glowed from his forge with his cupped hands, something that sparkled and shone. Kíli's eyes skittered away from it. It was a bit like looking at the sun – spots danced before his eyes. "I made him stubborn, after all."

"Seems that's a trait you're fond of," Kíli complained, and rubbed at his eyes. "Ow."

"It has served you all well," Mahal said. "Do not look at the light directly, Kíli. Your eyes are not made for it."

"Could have warned me earlier," Kíli grumbled, pressing his fingers against his eyelids.

"Thorin rests now, I trust."

"If you can call what he's doing _resting,"_ Kíli said, still prodding at his eyes. Little sparkles and starbursts exploded behind his closed eyes. Rather pretty, really. "He's back at his forge because grandfather will smack him silly if he goes back to the Chamber of  Sansûkhul today. He's making a pot-bellied stove." He pulled a face. "It has flowers on the door."

Mahal laughed again, the muted thunder of it rolling through Kíli's chest.

"He's very upset, I think," Kíli continued, and he blinked his eyes open. They were watering a little, and they smarted and stung. "He's upset about Gimli and that Elf, and he's upset that Gimli saw him – though in Durin's name I can't think why – and he's upset about Bilbo again for some reason. He won't talk about it. Well, Thorin doesn't talk about much when he's upset. He just gets surly. Surl _ier._ "

"He begins to understand, my son," Mahal said, and the great hand lowered to touch Kíli's shoulder gently. Kíli trembled as the hand passed over his face, but his eyes stopped their stinging and watering immediately. "He begins to realise many things."

Kíli folded his arms. "Oh? You're as mysterious as Gandalf, you know that?"

Mahal smiled, and Kíli felt it as a blooming warmth upon his face. "I take that as a great compliment. Olórin is a wise counsellor."

"He's got another name?" Kíli said, frowning, before shaking it off. "All right, so what it is he begins to realise? And what's it got to do with his Gift, then?"

His great Maker reached for his hammer, denser and darker than the black of night. He took it up and hefted it in his hand. "He begins to understand that his guilt and self-punishment serve no-one. He begins to know in his heart that he was loved, and that in his life and death he accomplished much that was good. He begins to move on."

"Thorin – move on?" Kíli asked with sceptical disbelief. "Pfft. Right."

Mahal brought his hammer down with a crash like the collapse of a mighty glacier. "He does. Reluctantly and with no little pain, but he begins to change."

Kíli abruptly remembered the teasing of two days ago, and wondered. "I suppose. Is that why he's so upset about Gimli? Because it's different?"

"You should ask him, my child," Mahal said gently. "Our fierce young star is perceptive. He sees and hears clearly; more clearly than most. Thorin's eyes are still clouded, but they begin to open wider."

"What about mine?" Kíli asked eagerly, and Mahal chuckled, bringing his hammer down once more.

"Ah, merry little prince. You have always had bright eyes."

Kíli huffed out a breath. "Yes, definitely as mysterious as Gandalf."

"Gimli is caught up in the greatest transformation to happen to the world since the last Age," Mahal continued. "I foresee that his quest will change more than himself. Already it begins. Long divisions are brought to the surface and ancient lies are exposed to the light."

"The Elf, Legolas," Kíli murmured.

"Aye." Mahal stopped and stood back from the glowing thing, his eyes regarding it critically. "You should leave, my son. You will not be able to withstand the next step of the forging."

"In a moment," Kíli said, and settled himself more comfortably. "So, about that Hobbit..."

* * *

"Thorin?"

Setting aside the metal he was filing (the legs of the stove, ready to be welded to the belly of the thing), Thorin looked up. His father was standing at the door of his forge, looking profoundly disappointed.

"Yes, yes, I should be resting," he grunted, and took up a towel to wipe the metal shavings from his workbench. "I cannot lie abed all day! Not when Gimli knows I am with him. Not when Elves make friends with Dwarves, and the Ring moves ever closer to Mordor. My Gift is needed. _I_ am needed! I am not made for inactivity,  'adad. It will soon drive me mad."

The minute the words left his mouth, he winced.

Thráin's shoulders hunched a little, before he sighed. "No, no, I am not offended, no need for that face. Nor I am not made for long leisure either, my lad. But you have nearly worked yourself to a standstill, and I cannot watch you do it again. Please, Thorin. I have said it before and I shall say it one more time: We are here if you need us."

Thorin raised his eyes, a protest on his lips. The minute he met his father's gaze, all the words fled. Thráin looked sad and wrung out, his mighty hands open and lax at his sides and his great head slightly stooped. Thorin swallowed, and then he said, "I do not know how to let you help, father," he said, hating every word. "I cannot..."

"You have been alone a long time, son," Thráin said, and he crossed to Thorin to pull him into a rough embrace. Thorin's back immediately stiffened, and he had to force himself to relax into his father's arms. "You have shouldered the cares of our people for so long. You do not have to carry that weight all alone. You have Dwarrows of skill around you. Let them help."

"How?" Thorin said, dark and low. "My mind is awhirl, and it will not let me rest. I cannot let this rest, 'adad. I cannot give this to another!"

"No-one is suggesting that," Thráin said, and he flicked an iron filing from Thorin's beard. "But you are not using what you have available to its greatest advantage in your determination to do it all yourself. We have scribes and sneak-thieves and Dwarf-Lords and miners and healers amongst us. Don't you think that Balin might know a thing or two about tight scheduling? He was a _Seneschal_ , Thorin. The job requires a lot of juggling. Young Ori could be an excellent keeper of information, yes? And his brother is a born spy if I have ever seen one. Bifur's mining has made him as patient as the very stones - chipping away in silence - and somehow he never gets bored. He is a natural watcher. Your mother is perceptive and shrewd, and your brother and nephews have energy to spare. You must use all this talent, son. You cannot take it all upon yourself any longer. I will not permit it."

"Will not permit!" Thorin said, jerking back to glare at his father. His father glared back – and there was a flicker of the splendid and mighty Prince under the Mountain in his eye.

"I will not permit it," he repeated sternly. "I understand, son. Do you think I don't? I left all by myself to retake Erebor – and look what it did to me! You are our leader in this, and none will gainsay your word. However, if you think we will idly stand by and watch you ruin yourself in your zeal, I strongly suggest you think again. We are here, Thorin – use us!"

Thorin seethed, hating the necessity of it, hating the sense his father was making. Thráin's dark eyes bored into his, and he clasped Thorin's shoulder firmly.

"Now. You will call another meeting. Ori will write down our decisions, and together you, me, Balin, Óin, my father and your mother will use our best judgement to create a schedule. Regular conferences should be held. We must share all this information that is being gathered. We must hold fast together, or not at all. I will not sacrifice more of my family to our stubbornness!"

Thorin's mouth opened slightly, and then he pressed his lips together. The more he learned, the more there was to learn. His weaknesses. He must come to accept them, just as Bilbo had said. The very concept made the flesh creep all down his back, but he would see it through nonetheless. For Bilbo. "You are right," he muttered, and turned away.

"I know I am. Your sense of duty does you credit, Thorin. Your love for Gimli and your Hobbit is praiseworthy. But duty or no, you are important and I will _not_ see you tear yourself to pieces," Thráin said, and he pulled Thorin close again. Then his nose wrinkled. "And now you, my firstborn, are going to go bathe and wash your hair. You smell."

"Any more orders?" Thorin said, trying to repress his glower. He knew he wasn't succeeding.

"Smile, now and again," Thráin said gently, and he cupped his huge and powerful hand against Thorin's cheek. "I promise you your face will not break."

"I believe Nori has offered good odds to the contrary," Thorin grumbled, and Thráin laughed.

"No doubt. Go on, then. Bathe. Eat some more. Rest another day and refresh yourself. Then we will have our meeting, and we will muster the true strengths of our people."

Thorin nodded in silence, his beard rasping against his father's palm. Thráin pressed his brow against Thorin's briefly, and then led him from the forge.

* * *

"Aaaand pull, my lads! Up it goes!"

The cry rang out over the battlements of Erebor, and Ori shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand as he peered up at the huge wooden beam, riveted and braced with metal struts, as it slowly tilted up into the air. The rope that was bearing it upright was being hauled upon by at least twenty Dwarrows, and Orla was overseeing the operation with a steady, steely dark eye.

"How does it go?" said Dís, coming up behind her lieutenant and speaking softly.

"We have three more mangonels to construct after this," Orla replied, her eyes never moving from the scene. A great-voiced sergeant was hollering orders at them, and many Dwarrows were red-faced and panting. "The catapults and the cauldrons are complete."

Dís hummed for a moment, before stepping beside Orla and crossing her arms as she watched the grunting Dwarves try to lever the massive beam into position. "And the long-range small-arms?"

"Eight hundred crossbows," Orla said, and she sighed. "It's still not popular."

"Bombur's girl?"

"Is leading those who are using longbows. Still, we're not likely to have a full contingent of archers unless the Elves arrive."

Dís nodded slowly, before she lifted her chin to peer over the mass of straining bodies. "Where is Quartermaster Dori?"

"Quartermaster?" Ori squeaked, and he clapped his hands over his mouth as pride began to make his chest puff out to twice its original size.

"He stepped out to see to the supply chain to the Iron Hills," Orla said. "He won't be pleased with the progress so far."

"Dori doesn't like it when people shilly-shally," Ori told them, before doing an awkward but happy little dance on the spot. His brother, Dori son of Zhori, of the line of Ymri the courtesan – baseborn and gossiped about – now High Guildmaster of Erebor _and_ Quartermaster of the armies of Durin's folk!

Wait til Nori heard!

"How do the new recruits fare?" Dís said after a slight pause. Orla's stern face softened a little in exasperation. "Oh, that well?"

"More discipline is required," Orla growled, and she snapped her head back to look at the beam, which was slowly rising into the vertical position. "They have worked hard, that I will grant them," she added grudgingly.

Dís chuckled. "It is a long time since Dáin led the most regimented army of Dwarves in Middle-Earth. The folk of the Iron Hills have grown soft, and so have we. This is a far cry from my grandfather's great host, twenty thousand strong and all trained to the peak. We have lost so many, and the years of peace have lulled us into a sense of false security. Now we must race to catch up."

"You Longbeards are always so gloomy," Orla said, and she ignored Dís' politely incredulous look. "They train hard. They fight well. We may not have the most regimented of armies, but they are fierce and they defend their home. What more is needed?"

" _We're_ gloomy?" Dís muttered. "Orla, I've been your friend for sixty years, and I have never, ever heard you laugh."

"I haven't heard a good joke in sixty years," Orla said, her dark face completely deadpan. "That might have something to do with it."

"Rope snapped!" someone suddenly shouted, and Dís swore, her grey hair escaping her braids as she darted forward. More shouts rang through the air, growing more and more shrill. The beam wobbled in its nest of ropes, teetering on its end.

"It'll come down!"

"Hold it steady! It's not going to come down!"

"It will if you keep waggling about like that!"

"HOLD STILL!"

"I can't hold on!"

"Idiots," Dís breathed, and she began to push through the milling crowds to get to where the beam was now lurching dangerously. "Hold strong!" she roared as she pushed through.

"What in the name of Durin's dirty socks is going on here!?" came Dori's appalled screech, and Ori flinched. He knew that tone. "You, hold onto that rope! No, the rope – the other rope! Oh, I'll do it myself, get out of the way!"

A hush fell over the crowd as Dori stumped through, his hair neatly bound in its elaborate braids, his Guildmaster's chain about his shoulders, and his lovely face flashing with irritation. He took a rope off a wheezing Dwarrow and tutted at them all, his lips pursed. "You want a thing done, do it yourself!" he announced grumpily, and hauled upon the rope.

The beam immediately righted itself, and Dori braced it with his shoulder. "Right!" he puffed. "Tie it into place – quickly! I'm not holding this thing all day!"

"That is impressive," Orla said, catching up to Dís. The First Advisor laughed.

"Dori's strength has not faded over time, I see. The mangonel will stand in a matter of hours, now he is here."

"What was that cry?" came a voice from the stairs behind them, and Ori span to see the Queen, her steel-threaded beard glittering, making her way towards them. Dwalin stood beside her, his arms folded.

"Shamukh, Majesty," said Orla, bowing low. "The support beam for the newest mangonel began to fall. Our Quartermaster righted it."

"Damned showoff," Dwalin grunted, and Orla's eyebrow arched at her husband as she righted herself.

"Jealousy, dear?" she said, her dark face impassive.

"Damned right I'm jealous," Dwalin said bluntly, and Ori giggled a trifle beneath his clasped hands. "I'm a Dwarf, I'm a Durin, I'm _meant_ to be jealous."

"Enough, General Dwalin," Queen Thira said in her low, forge-roughened voice. Her face was thin and elegant, surrounded by a plethora of black braids that swept up into a knot at the back of her head. More braids cascaded down from the knot, surmounted with gem-studded steel beads. She was thin, with the deceptively wiry strength of the dedicated smith. "How does the work proceed?"

  


_Thira, Queen of Erebor. Doll created by[godofmischieffoal](http://godofmischieffoal.tumblr.com/post/74075769052/thira-queen-of-erebor-based-on-dains-wife-in)._

"Well enough, now that Dori is here," Orla said without a glance back at her husband. Looking at Dwalin's face, Ori bit down on a grin. Whoever said that the Blacklock Dwarrowdam was without a sense of humour had obviously never seen her tease Dwalin.

"The steel for the struts is done," Thira continued, and she frowned as she watched Dori fussing over the lashing down of the huge main beam. "My forges haven't had time to burn out in weeks."

"What is he doing now?" Dís said, shaking her head.

"He's... cleaning the face of that Dwarrow," sighed Dwalin. He tipped back his white head. "Ugh, Dori never changes."

"Oh, Dori," Ori said sadly, watching as his brother corralled a set of stunned soldiers with a handkerchief and a scowl. Puffed from their efforts, bemused by Dori's beauty and perplexed by his scolding, they held still as Dori mopped at their faces.

"-an utter disgrace, the lot of you!" Dori finished up, and he sent them on their way with a sniff. "Take a little more pride in yourself, thank you very much. Now, Mister Foreman, where are we? I have three cartloads of wood that must be stored up here somewhere, and there's not enough room to swing a cat! What do you mean, somewhere else? Piffle. We need that wood to heat the cauldrons, in case you've forgotten. Or are you offering to lug a potful of molten metal from the lower levels to the battlements yourself?"

"He mothers the whole mountain," said Thira, her mouth twitching. The reddened and heat-blasted capillaries on her cheeks moved as she fought her smile.

"He does," Dwalin said, and he raised a wry eyebrow. "In the absence of his brothers, only every Dwarrow left in existence will do."

"Oh, you say that as though you hate it when he looks after Balin and Frerin for us," Orla murmured. Dwalin cleared his throat.

"Never said that."

Dís laughed softly and then she turned her eyes to the Queen. "I didn't expect to see you up here today, Thira."

"Not my usual scene, no," Thira said wryly, and she pulled at her leather apron. "To be truthful, I'd much prefer to be down at my forge still, but the work is moving so fast now and everything is so urgent... I felt it better to break the habits of a lifetime and come see what yet needs to be made."

"The armouries?" asked Dwalin, and Thira snorted inelegantly.

"Oh, please. I had the armour stockpiles replenished four decades ago, and I have all my masters and journeymen churning out axes and swords as fast as you can blink."

"The apprentices?"

"Are on arrows."

Dís frowned, watching Dori corral a section into moving some of the stockpiles of wood into a corner. "But we do not know if the Elves will help."

Thira smiled grimly. "I know. Still, we'll have the arrows for our own of the Elves keep to their forests."

"Which they most likely will. Damned point-ears wouldn't come out of their bolt-holes to piss on a Dwarf if he were on fire," Dwalin growled. Orla put her scarred hand upon his arm, and he settled reluctantly.

"My son will do his best," Thira said, and her head lowered slightly. "He's a persuasive boy, when he can be bothered to hold onto his temper."

"Whether the Elves come or no, Thorin will have done Erebor proud," Dís said, her marvellous voice cracking upon her cousin's name. "And more arrows will make Bomfrís and our archers happy."

Thira lifted an eyebrow. "You say that now. The apprentices are apprentices for a reason, after all."

Orla cocked her head, her great tail of black hair curling down over her bare shoulder. "I doubt they'd complain if an arrowhead wasn't perfectly filed, not when so many are required."

"Bomfrís and her archers will be very put out if all the arrows go to the weed-eaters," Dís commented, and Thira chuckled.

"Tell Bombur's lass not to worry. My apprentices aren't running out of iron-ore any time soon, not after the western tunnels were reopened last year."

"Bofur's on that," said Dwalin.

"And he keeps taking that wild little scamp of a son of his down there with him," groaned Orla. "And where one goes..."

Dwalin groaned as well. "The other follows. Wee Thorin should know better."

"He does," Dís said, and then she laughed sadly. "But Gimizh has too much of his uncle about him. Others will follow where he leads, even if they aren't sure why."

"Still missing your young cousin, eh?" Thira patted Dís' shoulder. "I'm sure he's fine and well, no doubt."

"I could have meant Bombur," Dís said in a tight voice, and Dwalin chuckled.

"Aye, but you didn't."

Dís held herself stiffly for another moment, before she relented, her steel-grey head dropping. "Yes, I miss him. It has been eight months, and no word."

"Now, now," said Thira kindly. "Gimli is well enough, I'm certain of it. Be comforted, sister."

Dís sighed, and then she looked up. "Oh, what on earth is he doing _now?"_

"Is he... braiding their hair?" Thira said blankly, and Dwalin closed his eyes.

"Ach, Dori," he muttered underneath his breath, "I will thump you, just see if I won't."

"Now there's the fight every Dwarrow has been waiting to see for eighty years," said Dís. "Dori versus Dwalin."

"Dori to win!" Ori immediately blurted, and then remembered that a) Nori wasn't here, and b) he was dead and no-one could hear him. "Drat and botheration," he mumbled.

"How can such a damned strong Dwarrow be such an ol'..." Dwalin's grumbles trailed off, and he stared over the sward of lush green that had once been the Desolation of the Dragon. "See there? Can you see that? A great host approaches."

"The messenger again?" Dís said heavily, and she turned to the southern side with resignation in her lined eyes.

"No," Orla said, and for once there was a smile on her face. It looked so unnatural on her that Ori had to blink. "Those are Elves."

"Elves!" Dwalin said in blank shock, and he pushed the crowding, gossiping soldiers aside to make his way to the side of the battlements.

"Can you see?" Dori shouted to him. "My eyes aren't what they were!"

"They never were!" Dwalin shot back, and Dori grunted and made a rude gesture at him (and Ori gasped " _Dori!"_ in scandalised astonishment). "Those are Elves, or I'm a troll."

"Any fool could see that," Dori said dismissively. "I meant the figure in the lead. That's no Elf!"

"Can you see?" Dís said to Thira. "You're younger than the rest of us: here, come to the front."

Thira glanced over the battlements, and her eyes widened. "Inùdoy," she breathed.

"That's the Stonehelm!" Dís said, and she put a hand to her pattern-shaved cheek in shock. "He persuaded Thranduil! But I thought it impossible!"

"Thorin Stonehelm!" Dwalin roared, echoed by Ori, Dori and Orla. The cry was taken up around the battlements as the host of Elves moved to the Gates, passing between the great statues of heroes long dead.

"The Stonehelm is back!" The shout rose from every throat. "The Stonehelm returns! Open the gates!"

"I..." Thira said, her mouth working soundlessly for a moment. Then she gave up on words and turned to run back towards the stairs.

  


  
  


Thira in her court attire, by [ flamesburnonthemountainside](http://flamesburnonthemountainside.tumblr.com/post/114420778526/so-not-the-most-amazing-drawing-ever-but-i-was)

  


Dís raised her hand, and every eye swung towards the First Advisor, Princess of Erebor and the Line of Durin. "Open the Gates!" she cried, her glorious voice carrying like a struck bell and echoing from the smooth rock faces of the walls. "Erebor welcomes her Prince and her allies!"

The cheer that greeted this statement was deafening. Dwalin slumped beside his wife, his good eye turning to her. "We don't stand alone," he said, confusion and gratitude warring in his face.

"Not this time," said Dís, and her hand tightened on the walls of the battlements. "Not this time."

"Sauron will find the North a little more difficult to subdue than he was expecting," said Dori in satisfaction. "Serves him right!"

"Du bekâr!" roared Orla, brandishing her heavy Blacklock sword in defiance, and it was repeated by the whole mountain as the Stonehelm passed between the Gates, followed by a mighty host of tall Elves in grey-green, bows strapped to their backs and eyes cold. The cry of challenge rang through the air, making the very Mountain shake with it. Dwalin gritted his teeth, obviously torn about the presence of the Elves. When Dís raised her fist to join in the joyous shout, he groaned in defeat and finally joined in:

"Du bekâr! Du bekâr! To arms! TO ARMS!"

* * *

The next morning came swiftly, and Thorin woke to see his grandfather sitting at his side.

"Am I under arrest now?" he said sardonically, pushing himself up to one elbow. "Do I need a keeper?"

"You need a slap upside the head, but your mother has forbidden me," Thrór said gruffly. "No, I'm to take you to the Chamber of Sansûkhul, and then to bring you out again. No days-long vigil for you this time, my lad."

Thorin brightened. "Then I may go to Gimlîn-zâram?"

Thrór snorted loudly. "You may go to Gimli, you mean. _After_ you have eaten, nidoyel. Up you get now. I'll meet you at table."

Thorin scowled after his grandfather as he made his way from the room. "Stop making that face, Thorin," Thrór said calmly without even turning around.

Grumbling, Thorin stalked from the bed and closed the door behind Thrór's back. He was one hundred and ninety-five years old, a King, a warrior and a leader. And his family was convinced he was an errant child!

Still, he had to admit to himself that he had not thought ahead. He had rushed headlong into his new obsession, stubborn and single-minded as always - and had overreached himself. Dwalin would have laughed himself sick.

Very well. He would reach out and accept help. He would... he would lean on others. He would allow them to prop him up. He would accept that he could not do everything. He would acknowledge his own shortcomings – his mortal weaknesses.

Thorin repressed a wince of revulsion at the thought, and dressed himself with purpose. He felt rather as though he was arming himself for battle instead of a breakfast with his family.

Entering the closest of the vast dining chambers, Thorin made his way directly to where his grandfather's great white head could be seen, a beacon amongst all the other Dwarrows that milled around.

His mother immediately piled a plate and put it in front of him, and his brother hovered anxiously as he sat and began to eat. "Thorin?" he asked, wringing his hands. "Are you feeling better?"

"I am fine," he said curtly. Thrór kicked him underneath the table. Thorin sent his grandfather a dirty look, before he relented. "I know I worried you, Frerin. I - I'm sorry."

"Did Thorin just apologise?" Fíli whispered in shock, and Kíli nudged him into silence. Thorin glanced over at his nephews, before placing his spoon down and splaying his hands flat upon the surface of the table. All eyes turned to him.

"I know I have worried all of you," he said, and the words were halting but clear. He steeled himself. He was not accustomed to such things, and he profoundly disliked the feeling of exposure it gave him. "I apologise. I will not allow my obsessions to overtake my good judgement again."

"Damned right," said Hrera bluntly, "because I will knock you out before it happens again, my indomitable grandson."

Kíli leaned forward, his eyes wide and concerned. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"No!" Thorin immediately snapped, and Kíli flinched back a little. Cursing under his breath, Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Again, I am sorry," he muttered. "Kíli, namadul, I..."

"Gimli knows now," Fíli said, his hand landing on his brother's shoulder and squeezing. "That can't be easy for you."

"No, it is not," Thorin said, his throat tightening around the words. Mahal below, but the sense of being stripped and exposed was abominable. He hated and despised every second of it.

"Frankly I am amazed that any living Dwarrow can have any knowledge of the mysteries at all," remarked Frís. "I thought it was forbidden."

"Who knows what powers that Elf-woman has?" Thorin said, looking up. His nephews and brothers were watching him closely, and he repressed a scowl and looked back down at his plate. "I am glad Gimli knows. I am _glad_. I have wished, time after time, that he..." He broke off and took a bite of the bread and honey. Perhaps Bilbo's tactics would work better for him?

"So not Gimli," said Fíli, his face thoughtful.

"Course not," Kíli said. "He loves Gimli. Perhaps he's afraid?"

"I am sitting right here," Thorin growled, and his nephews both shrugged.

"Since you never talk about anything, we have to speculate," Fíli pointed out with unassailable (and impertinent) logic. "So, are you afraid?"

Thorin hesitated, and then he felt his mother's shrewd eyes upon his face. "Yes," he muttered.

"Ah, silly boy," Hrera said, shaking her head. "Gimli would not reject you. Gimli is a Dwarf alone. He mourned you, and he has always respected you and heard you clearly. Take that as a positive sign."

"Positive. Thorin," Kíli snorted, and at Thorin's dark look he applied himself to his meal again.

"Gimli..." Thorin bit down upon the inside of his cheek. "I do not wish to talk of that. I will find out soon enough. Besides, that is not the issue that concerns me the most."

"It's the Elf, then?" Frerin said uncertainly.

Thorin's hand suddenly slammed down upon the table. "Yes, it is the damned Elf! They are enemies! They should hate each other!"

"Thorinîth," Frís said wearily, and he interrupted her, his temper flaring.

"I am no mewling child!"

"No, that you are not," she said levelly. "But you have been in a foul mood ever since Gimli and the Elf reached an accord. We have done nothing to deserve such treatment, my son."

Thorin's heart sank and he rubbed at his face, his bread falling back to his plate. "Mohilâli harubaz hubma," he groaned into his palms. "Forgive me."

Hrera hit the back of his head. "Language," she snapped.

"Call the meeting, inùdoy," Thráin advised. "Doing something productive will cool that Durin temper of yours."

"Don't blame him for being cantankerous about that damned Elf," Thrór growled beneath his breath. Hrera gave her husband a level look, and his eyes snapped back to his plate hurriedly.

"Yes, yes," Thorin said, still muffled by his palms. A hand tentatively settled on his forearm, and he peered out between his fingers to see Frerin gazing up at him. His brother's painfully young face was creased with worry.

"D'you want me to come with you, nadad?" he whispered.

Thorin regarded his brother for a moment, the words of his grandparents and parents all swirling through his mind. They warred with the utter outrage induced by the Elf's audacity in befriending his father's enemy, and the elated fear at Gimli's new knowledge. He felt full of conflicting, deafening thoughts, and far too small to contain them. "Aye," he said eventually. "Aye, nadad. That would be well. I would welcome you."

Frerin blinked, and then he beamed. "Then I am with you."

Thorin dropped his hand to clasp Frerin's, and not for the first time he swallowed the shock at the difference between his hand and his adolescent brother's. So small, so small and unmarked. "Thank you."

"Better," Hrera said primly. "Now, eat up. Thrór will be watching the Chamber, so don't you pair get any ideas!"

"Grandmother!" Frerin protested. She held up a warning finger.

"My memory's not so bad as all that. I remember what you two used to get up to."

"I _wish_ I did," Kíli muttered.

The rest of breakfast passed without further interruption, and Thorin soon stood and met his grandfather's eyes. "How long?" he asked in a level voice.

"Four hours at first," he said firmly. "Then you must take a break and eat something. I will come and get you. Understood?"

Thorin sighed, but forebore to comment. Then he turned to his mother and bent to sweep her beard away from her upper cheek and kiss her. "I am sorry, 'amad," he murmured.

"I am proud of you, inùdoy," she said, smiling with her eyes. "I know it is not easy to change. Thank you for accepting our advice."

He nodded, before turning and striding from the dining chamber. The slap of Frerin's boots against the stone could be heard following him. "Thorin, wait!" he said, and he slowed his stride a little to allow his brother to catch up. "I hadn't finished my drink," he complained.

Mindful of his impatience and now very wary of his temper, Thorin stopped and looked down at his brother. "Did you want to go back?" he asked carefully. Gimli and Bilbo were only seconds away, waiting on the other side of the starry skin of Gimlîn-zâram.

"Nah, let's go," Frerin said, searching Thorin's eyes. "You're about to explode or something, and believe me, after the last dramatic day or two I'm a bit scared of that happening. You can be very intimidating, you know that?"

He could feel the corner of his mouth twitching. "Thank you."

"Not a compliment," Frerin grumbled. "Come on. Let's not waste any time before grandfather comes and hauls us out by the ear."

Passing through the pearly arch, Thorin took his seat and Frerin nudged him over to allow him room to sit beside him. Thorin grudgingly made space, before glancing over to where Ori sat. The scribe's eyes were distant and unfocused, his face half-illuminated in the gloom. "Where is he? I have had no updates for two days."

"Dunno. I suppose we'll find out," Frerin said. "Come on, big brother. Let's go see your firebrand, shall we?"

What did Gimli think, now he was aware that a dead Dwarrow claimed to watch him and know him and love him as a father loved a son? The apprehension clawed at Thorin's belly again, but he forced it down ruthlessly. "Yes. Lothlórien."

It took no time at all for the dancing flecks of light to begin their whirling beneath the silvery surface of the pool. The stars seemed to welcome him back after his enforced absence, enfolding him their luminous embrace and sending thrills of heat to the very heart of him. Thorin opened his arms and let them swallow him, let them turn him inside out and send him back to those he loved.

Even before his eyes had shaken off the blinding light, he could hear the rumbling deep voice of his star, well-loved and familiar, echoing in his ears.

"Gimli," he said, and stepped forward blindly, blinking furiously. His heart leaped in his breast.

"...so very tall!" Gimli was saying, and there was the sound of his heavy Dwarf-boots striking wood. "Why don't they make moving platforms? Wouldn't be hard: a few pulleys, a few ropes, a winch or two, and Borin's your uncle. I'll wager I could throw together a blueprint by lunchtime!"

"Peace, Master Dwarf!" came the light laughter of the Elf, and Thorin clamped down on a growl. "These woods have stood unchanged for millennia. I do not think they are ready for such Dwarvish ingenuity and innovation."

"T'is a long way to climb, is all I'm saying," Gimli said, and Thorin's eyes gradually focused upon his star. His face was disgruntled as he stomped back up the winding stairs of the great mallorn to the flet where they had met Galadriel and Celeborn, Gimli in second-last place and the Elf bringing up the rear of the Fellowship. "They're not difficult at all. We've been using 'em forever. Well, you soon find yourself thinking of new ways to make life easier in a mine, let me tell you!"

"You have worked a mine?"

"Lad, I've been working mines since I was fifty, and they are no picnic," Gimli said, and he reached out to touch the silvery bark of the mallorn as he made his way ever upwards, following the shield of Boromir as they climbed. "Still, you'd miss the sight and scent of the trees if you took a platform," he said in a slightly quieter voice, and his straight Durin brow smoothed out. "Perhaps the old way is better after all."

"We shall make an Elf of you yet, Gimli," Legolas smiled.

"Ha! That will take some doing!" chuckled Gimli. "I warn you, I am a sight too heavy to go walking on snow as you do."

Legolas' answering laugh was soft. "Perhaps not. We would need to see what lies beneath that beard of yours, my friend, and I know enough to fear for my life should I come at you with a razor."

"Mahal's blessed balls!" Gimli choked, and his fingers rose to thread through the enviable mass of his ruddy, handsome beard. "Don't say such vile things!"

"Hold your tongue, you damned weed-eater," Thorin snarled. "You cannot possibly know what a Dwarf's beard means!"

Gimli stopped abruptly, as though he had run into an invisible wall. His bright head snapped up, and his eyes widened. Then he whispered a quiet oath beneath his breath and his dark eyes shone. "Hail, my lord," he said in a voice that could barely be heard. "I thought you had abandoned me."

"Never," Thorin said, and a huge nebulous joy built in his chest and throat. "Never, my star."

"Gimli, mellon nín?" Legolas had almost crashed into Gimli's broad back, and he looked down upon the Dwarf in confusion. "Why do you stop? Are you well?"

"I am well," Gimli said loudly, before he dropped his voice to a mere rumbling whisper. "Ma katakluti, melhekhel."

"Shândi, inùdoy kurdulu," Thorin replied. Then he reached out and his fingers wrapped themselves in Frerin's sleeve. "He knows I am here!"

"But he can't hear you properly," Frerin pointed out. Thorin was too overwhelmed to notice.

"It matters not," he said wildly. "He knows I am here! He senses my presence so clearly!"

"Abbadizu," said Gimli, and he smiled. "Baknd ghelekh ra yâdùshun, Thorin Thráinul."

"Gimli?" said the Elf, his fair face drawing in worry. "What is it?"

"Ah, not now!" Gimli said softly, and he shook his head. "Nothing, Legolas," he said, and he began to move up the stairs again. "A small twinge in the leg, nothing more."

The Elf seemed suspicious. "And a hardy Dwarf is susceptible to twinges in the legs?"

"He is if he is made to climb so many stairs!" Gimli said triumphantly, and Thorin could not help but laugh with pride at how neatly he had turned the conversation back around.

"Your mood swings faster than an axe, and is just as cutting," Frerin muttered. " _Now_ you're happy?"

"Gimli! Legolas!" came Aragorn's voice from above. "Hurry up!"

"I am going to get tired of hearing that Man say that," Gimli predicted, before he bent his head and picked up his pace. His boots made an absolute racket against the thin and graceful wood.

"Well, they know you are coming," Legolas said wryly.

Gimli only growled and applied himself to making it up the winding stairs.

As they stepped onto the wide _talan,_ Thorin was again taken aback at the radiance that spilled from the Lord and the Lady of the Golden Wood. Gimli immediately moved to the forefront of the Fellowship, and Sam and Merry exchanged bemused and amused glances as the Dwarf gazed up at the Lady Galadriel with something very much approaching worship.

"It seems Thranduil's son isn't the only Elf that Gimli feels an affinity for," Frerin said, and Thorin blew out a breath.

"The Elf-woman spoke to him fairly, and in our ancient tongue. She gave him peace in a land of strangers, and gave me the gift of his knowledge," he said grudgingly. "She is powerful, but she means him no harm."

Frerin paused, and then he turned to look into Thorin's face, his expression serious. "Something is different with you, isn't it nadad?" he asked. "You never would have said that before."

Thorin folded his arms and scowled like a thunderstorm. "I concede that perhaps she is no danger to Gimli. Thranduil's spawn, on the other hand...!"

"Hmm," Frerin said, his fair brows rising. Then he turned to watch the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim move before the Fellowship again, their faces serene and their footsteps soundless. "If you say so, big brother."

The Lady spoke at length with Aragorn, and Thorin found himself studying this fellow crownless King for a moment. The Man touched a jewel at his neck and bowed his head, and Galadriel brought her hand up to touch his head in blessing. There was a warning in her eyes.

Cloaks were given to each member of the Fellowship, greyish-green like the garb worn by the Elves around them. Gimli fingered the material curiously and brought the clasp up to squint at it with a knowledgeable eye. "Not bad work," he murmured to himself. "Not bad work at all."

"Are these magic cloaks?" said Pippin, looking at them with wonder.

Celeborn laughed in his low, musical voice. "I do not know what you mean by that," he said. "They are fair garments, and the weave is good. Leaf and branch, water and stone; they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love. You may find them a great aid in keeping out of the sight of unfriendly eyes, wherever it is you walk."

"You are indeed high in the favour of our lady, for she herself and her maidens wove these. Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people," said Haldir, and he glanced disdainfully down at Gimli as he spoke. The Dwarf had no eyes for the March-warden, however, but was looking upon his cloak with a new and appreciative gaze.

"From the Lady's own hand!" he murmured. "Ach, zabadel, do you see how lucky I am?"

"I see it, Gimli," Thorin said grudgingly. "It is a fine cloak."

Gimli's head lifted, and a spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. "Ah, you do not approve," he said.

"I do not mind the Lady's gifts," Thorin said, and ignored the nudge that Frerin gave him.

"I do not ask for them," Gimli said, and he turned to watch as Galadriel handed Pippin and Merry a pair of silver belts strung with sharp Elvish daggers. "Now, that is some Dwarvish work there! I wonder who the maker was?"

"Gifts from Moria, long ago," Celeborn said, his face impassive as he answered the Dwarf. Gimli bowed in response.

"Then I am pleased my people were able to gift anything of beauty to a land so replete with it," he said, and Frerin whistled.

"Smooth talker, isn't he?"

"Oh, you have no idea," Thorin said, and watched Celeborn's face with some satisfaction as the Lord tried to find a fault in the elegant compliment.

Boromir received a golden belt from the Lady's hands, and his eyes rose to meet hers again. She smiled reassuringly, her hands rising to clasp his wrists. The Man swallowed hard, and fear and pain briefly flitted across his face. Then he bowed his head in thanks.

Legolas was next in line, and to him she presented a great longbow, taller and thicker than the bows of Mirkwood. "Is that Elf-hair?" Gimli hissed to him. "You said they were strung with Elf-hair."

"Indeed it is," Legolas said, testing the draw and nodding in satisfaction at the heavy pull. "Such carvings! My lady, I thank you. Nîn velui a lalaith veren nalú en-agovaded vín, Hril nín."

"The bow of the Galadhrim is well-suited for the great skill of our woodland kin," she said, smiling. "Namárië, Legolas Thranduilion. You will find your place, though it may be where you least expect it."

"Riddles," Thorin muttered. "I dislike riddles."

To Sam she gave a little box of grey wood, filled with soil so fine it seemed nearly mist. Thorin gave it a sceptical look, but noted that all three of the other Hobbits were looking upon Sam with envy. For his part, the gardener went red right to the tips of his pointed ears and stammered something utterly incomprehensible as he bowed as best he could. "What on earth is the point of that?" Frerin hissed.

"I am not sure," Thorin said, "but see how the other Hobbits react."

"Huh." Frerin scratched at his golden hair, blue eyes puzzled. "Hobbits are very enthusiastic about dirt, aren't they?"

_I often think of Bag End. I miss my books, and my arm chair, and my garden._

"Very," Thorin murmured. "Gardens... are important."

Galadriel paused as she turned to Gimli, and her lips parted a little. "Ah," she said, as though to herself.

Then she smiled at Gimli. "And what Gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?"

"None, Lady," Gimli said, his chin lifting and his eyes shining with a kind of serene joy. "It is enough for me to have seen the Lady of the Galadhrim, and to have heard her gentle words."

Beside Thorin, Frerin's jaw dropped open.

"Smooth indeed, inùdoy," Thorin said, and he shook his head. "Your audacity will get you everywhere, son of Glóin!"

"Hear all ye Elves!" Galadriel cried, her face aglow and her arms open. "Let none say again that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious! Yet surely, Gimli, you desire something that I could give you? Name it, I bid you!"

"You have already given me much, Lady," Gimli said softly.

"Yet your hands are empty," she countered.

"But my heart is full."

"Durin's beard," Frerin said faintly. "He speaks as prettily as a bard."

"The poet in him has slept too long, I think," said Thorin, folding his arms in satisfaction lest he burst with pride. He smiled at his star. "It must always come out again in some spectacular fashion."

"I would not have you depart as the only guest without a gift, Aulë's child," Galadriel said. "Come, name that which I could give you, and it is yours."

"There is nothing, Lady Galadriel," Gimli said, bowing low and stammering a little. The tips of his stubborn Durin ears reddened. "Only..."

Galadriel's smile widened. "Ah. Yes?"

Gimli's head turned back up to her, his braids falling before his brows. "Nothing – unless it is permitted to ask, nay, to name a single strand of your hair, which surpasses the gold of the earth as the stars surpass the gems of the mine."

The intake of breath from the assembled Elves was very loud in the sudden silence.

"I do not ask for such a gift," said Gimli, faltering beneath the sudden scrutiny. "But you commanded me to name my desire."

Astonishment was written upon every face, and Celeborn looked upon Gimli with wonder. But Galadriel laughed, and her laugh was as pure and soaring as birdsong. "It is said that the skill of the Dwarves is in their hands rather than in their tongues," she said, "yet that is not true of Gimli. For none have made to me a request so bold and so courteous. And how shall I refuse, since I commanded him to speak? But tell me, what would you do with such a gift?"

"Treasure it, Lady," said Gimli promptly, "in memory of your words to me at our first meeting. And if ever I return to the smithies of my home, it shall there be set in imperishable crystal to be an heirloom of my house and a pledge of goodwill between the Mountain and the Wood until the end of days."

"Yes, if your wild nephew does not eat it first!" Thorin said, and turned his eyes upwards. "Oh, my star, you have outdone yourself this time. Well, you are certainly a member of my family! You do not know when to stop either!"

Galadriel paused, and then she straightened. Her hand went to the long river of silver-and-gold that cascaded down her back, and then her slim white fingers began to unpick her braids.

"Meleth nín!" Celeborn said, taking a quick step forward. His eyes flashed.

Galadriel turned her unearthly gaze upon her husband, and he subsided reluctantly. Elves stirred and murmured in amazement as the tresses blew free in the wind, shining like mingled gold and mithril and silver in the morning light.

Gimli seemed unable to speak as the Lady cut three hairs from her head and laid them in his rough broad hand. His eyes fixed upon them as though he could hardly believe what he saw.

She folded his thick fingers over the hairs and bent before him. "These words shall go with the gift," she said. "I do not foretell, for all foretelling is in vain: On the one hand lies darkness, and on the other the slimmest of hopes. But if hope should not fail, then I say to you, Gimli Gloinul, that your hands will flow with gold, and yet over you gold shall have no dominion."

The sudden surge of self-loathing was sharp and acid. Thorin sucked a breath in through his teeth.

"No, brother," Frerin said gently, and he nudged him. "No. Stop it. Remember what our mum said, yes?"

"I know, I know," Thorin managed, and then he raised his eyes to look upon Gimli. "Well then, perhaps the curse of our Line is truly broken."

Frerin smiled. "Perhaps."

Gimli was staring at the glowing strands in his hand in disbelief, and then he looked up again at the Elf-woman with joy radiating from his face. "Lady," was all he said, and he bowed low in Dwarvish fashion and with utter respect and gratitude.

She inclined her head, smiling. "Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil."

Gimli laughed in delight. "Aye. May all our paths take us to safe places."

"What," said Frerin blankly.

"She knows Khuzdul," Thorin groaned, and slid a hand roughly over his face. "Apparently she does not know enough to keep it to herself!"

"Well, to be fair, neither does Gimli," Frerin pointed out.

To Frodo she gave a phial filled with a silvery light, and then Galadriel bent to kiss the Ringbearer gently on the forehead. Despite their long rest in this peaceful land, Frodo appeared tired. He seemed far older, and his blue eyes were deeper and wiser than they had been. Some change was being wrought in this young Hobbit that Thorin could not understand.

"Bilbo will be sad," he said to himself. His Hobbit would weep. He could not bear that. "Bilbo should not be sad."

He leaned in close to Gimli's ear. "Gimli, do not forget Frodo," he murmured to his star as the Fellowship turned and made their way for the stairs again. Far, far below, a party of Elves waited to take them to the shallow inlet that led to the great river Anduin.

"Here, Frodo," Gimli said immediately, tipping his head to where the Ringbearer marched along behind Aragorn. "Can you believe it? I would never have believed, not in all the lives of Elves and Dwarves, that my request should be granted! Look! Are they not beautiful?"

"Very, Gimli!" Frodo smiled, and he watched the Dwarf's great thick fingers, capable of such power and strength, nimbly coil the hairs into a loose braid and tuck them inside a roll of fabric close to his heart. "It is a wondrous gift!"

"No more than yours!" Merry said. "I fancied I could see that little bottle shining without a single light glancing upon the glass!"

"I wonder what would happen if you drank it?" Pippin mused. Legolas choked, and then he threw his head back and laughed the silvery laugh of Elvenkind.

"I do not advise it," Aragorn said, his mouth curving into a smile. He touched the jewel at his throat. "Save your breath for the climb, my friends. We have a long road ahead, and there may be few places such as Lothlórien to rest in safety. I suggest we ration our strength for the great river."

"I am beginning to think that Gimli is right about you," Thorin muttered, looking up at the Man. Aragorn remained a mystery: a King of Men who ran from his Kingship but never from his duty, raised by Elves and beloved of an Elf, but a mortal nonetheless, a mighty warrior and a trueborn heir of Númenor hiding beneath the leathers of a Ranger and the ignoble name of 'Strider'. "You are far too grim and dour."

"That's rich, coming from you," said Frerin. Thorin ignored him.

It was not long before the Fellowship were packing bundles into the narrow boats used by the Galadhrim. Gimli eyed them dubiously. "They don't look very stable," he said.

"These boats are crafty and will not sink, no matter how heavily you lade them," said Haldir, who had accompanied them to the mooring-spot. "However, they are wayward if mishandled. I caution you to take care at first!"

Gimli looked doubtful, but Legolas smiled. "Come, mellon nín, I shall take the first turn at the oars. No doubt you shall find your sea-legs soon enough!"

"You may be waiting for some time," Gimli said, but he clambered gingerly into the narrow grey boat anyway, clutching the sides with his great hands. "Seems all right so far," he said to himself. "Ah, but the real test is Anduin! And how far away is she, I wonder?"

Gimli's name was spoken in a hushed voice behind him, and it sent Thorin's head whirling around to where Boromir helped Aragorn load the other two boats, their heads bent close. "I do not understand their wonder," Boromir was saying in a low voice. "Why should a gift of three hairs amaze them so?"

Aragorn smiled once more, and the expression sat more easily on his face than Thorin was expecting. "That is a long tale, and an old one."

"We have a little time here and now before the river beckons," Boromir said, and he laughed suddenly. "I have never seen an Elf amazed before. It was worth coming to this place simply for that!"

Aragorn chuckled. "It is not a regular occurrence, no. Well, in short, the Lady of this wood is of the Noldor, those Elves beloved of the craftsman and smith of the Valar, Aulë."

Thorin jerked back, and at his side Frerin whispered, "Mahal loved Elves? Was this before he loved us?"

"He loves us," Thorin said staunchly. "He gave us life. He gave me my Gift. No other Vala loves us but Mahal. He loves us!"

"The greatest and most skilled of that race was her uncle, Fëanor. A fire lived in him that could not be quenched, to the ruin of all," Aragorn continued, and his smile faded to be replaced by his customary grim look. "I will not speak more of those days and the horrors wrought by arrogance and vengeance, not under the trees of his exiled kin. Suffice to say, many sorrows came into the world through both his skill and his pride."

"What has this to do with Gimli's gift?" Boromir said, leaning against the lip of the grey boat and tilting his head.

"Ah." Aragorn's dark look softened a little. "Fëanor begged his niece for a strand of her hair three times, and three times she refused."

Boromir blinked. "Gimli does not know."

"No," Aragorn said, and his smile grew again. "He does not know that the gift refused to the mightiest of the Noldor has now been granted to a Dwarf. He does not know that the most skilled hands that have ever existed once yearned for that which he now holds. He will treasure those shining hairs for love of the giver, not for their beauty or use to him."

Boromir stared, and so did Thorin. "Ma mahdijn," he said, stunned.

"May we all find such joy in our lives," said Boromir gravely, and Aragorn nodded in agreement.

"We must leave all joy behind for a while, my brother, for now we leave Lothlórien," he said, and gestured to the boat in which Pippin and Merry sat, scrabbling amongst the supplies already. "Take care of our Brandybuck and our young Took upon the waters of Anduin, and I will lead with Frodo and Sam. I know these waters."

Boromir clapped his shoulder once, before moving to the two youngest Hobbits, who sat in the bow of the second of the boats, their heads close together. They looked up suddenly and guiltily as he approached, crumbs on their mouths. "I was hungry!" Pippin squeaked.

Boromir only laughed and tousled his curls, before clambering into the boat and pushing it from shore with the help of Haldir.

"I am beginning to realise why you love him so, Thorin," Frerin said, his voice hushed. "A single strand was refused to a Lord of Elves, and three were given to a Dwarf. Who could have predicted such a thing?"

"He doesn't know," said Thorin, and he moved back to where Gimli sat, gripping the edges of his boat with a look of extreme trepidation on his face as Legolas pushed them from the shore with his paddle. Taking the bench beside his star, Thorin shook his head and gazed at his face: his Durin brow, his Broadbeam nose, his strong cheekbones and stubborn mouth. "He has just received something extraordinary by virtue of who he is - through his honesty and humility and eloquence - and he doesn't even know."

"Ah, I have taken my worst wound at this parting!" Gimli said suddenly, and his hand unclenched from around the side of the boat and pressed against his wide chest where the lock lay coiled beneath his brigandine. "I have looked the last upon that which is fairest. Henceforward I will call nothing fair, unless it be her gift to me."

Legolas dipped the paddle into the water and tilted his head in the strange birdlike manner he shared with his father. Thorin bristled to have the Elf's voice so close as he said, "No, do not say that! Gimli, I count you blessed, for you have found and lost, and your loss you suffer of your own free will. Only faithfulness keeps you on this watery road."

"Dwarves are not meant for boats, I tell you," he growled, and shook out his bright hair. "Yet as I told Master Elrond, faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens. Ach, why did I come on this quest? Little did I know where the chief peril lay! Torment in the dark was the danger I feared, and it did not hold me back in the slightest. Nay, I leapt forward with my axe in my hands, nearly to my own death. But oh, the dangers of light and joy! They will cut me into ribbons where the orcs failed. My heart is all torn in two. And my lord, is he here with me?"

"I am here, Gimli," Thorin said, and clenched his hand tightly against his leg to stop himself from reaching for Gimli's wild braids. "I am here."

"He is here," Gimli said, and sighed gustily, relaxing heavily down into the boat.

"That is the King you saw in her mirror," Legolas said. It could have been a figment of Thorin's overtired, overstretched mind, but he seemed to see a flicker of apprehension in the Elf's eyes.

"Aye, my cousin and King," Gimli said. Then he sent Legolas an arch look from under his brows. "The one you threatened with your bow."

Legolas visibly winced.

"Uh-oh," Frerin said, and ducked.

"I offer him my most sincere apology," the Elf said in a stilted, halting voice. Then he made a loud and disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. "But how? How does a dead Dwarf follow you?"

Gimli's lips snapped into a thin white line. "You were there when I saw him and so I cannot pretend otherwise," he said slowly. "I have told you many secrets, for we are friends and comrades now and that is as it should be. Indeed, I may have been over-reckless, and spoken more than I should. But this I cannot tell you, for no Dwarf alive knows the mysteries. We know we go to the Halls of our Ancestors, and there we wait for the world that is to come. There, it is promised, we will finally be fully accepted amongst the Children of Ilúvatar. We will be wanted and needed and loved at long last, after all our days of walking apart. But what the Halls are, or where: this is not given to us to know. I do not know how my kin stay with me, and neither _should_ I know, I suspect." He watched the banks of the river rushing away to either side of them. The singing of the Galadhrim faded into the background.

"You have indeed been reckless, my star," Thorin said, and wondered at what would become of him, this Dwarrow who received threefold the gift refused to a Lord of Elves in the dawn of time. "You have always been a little reckless. Your uncle is rehearsing some choice words for you." Suddenly the magnitude of what Gimli had received struck him all at once, and he burst out, "Oh, but I am proud of you!"

"Please, Legolas, you must not mention it to the others," Gimli said, his face deadly earnest. "This is one secret that should never have been spoken aloud. This is one step too far. Our accord is new indeed, but I know you will not betray me!"

Legolas' bright Elven eyes grew concerned, and he was silent as he stroked the paddle through the water several times. Then he said, "I will keep the secret, mellon, and no word of it shall pass my lips, not to any living creature, be they Elf, Man, or Wizard. You are now my friend, Gimli. I am honoured to hold your secrets, though I do not understand them."

"Thank you, Legolas," Gimli said, and his hand rose to touch the place over his heart where the lock was stowed once more. "I do not know how," Gimli repeated softly. "But I cannot help but be grateful."

Legolas paused, and then he smiled that faint Elven smile. "I am glad for you, my friend."

Gimli nodded, and then he smiled back. "My friend."

...

TBC

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All my thanks for your wonderful reviews and kudoses and OMG YOU GUYS I HAVE NO WORDS THANK YOU._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Mellon nin – my friend.  
> Meleth nin - my love  
> Namárië - farewell  
> Nîn velui a lalaith veren nalú en-agovaded vín, Hril nín – Sweet waters and light laughter until we next meet, my lady.
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Namadul – sister's son  
> Mohilâli harubaz hubma – I am acting the horse's arse (bottom)  
> Ma katakluti, melhekhel – I cannot hear clearly, king of all kings  
> Shândi – I understand  
> Baknd ghelekh ra yâdùshun. – Good morning and welcome.  
> Abbadizu – you are here.  
> Zabadel – Lord of Lords  
> Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil. – I wish you a safe journey.  
> Ma mahdijn – I do not believe.  
> Inùdoy kurdulu – my son of the heart  
> Shamukh – Hail!  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool
> 
> Galadriel and Fëanor: This is canon. Gimli will never understand the significance of the gift of the three hairs, which were said to shine like the light of the Trees before the breaking of the world. Galadriel was not a participant in the atrocities that her uncle perpetrated, but as a Noldo who followed her kin to Arda without permission she fell under the ban of the Valar nevertheless. Her exile will end at the close of the Third Age, due to her refusal of the One Ring.
> 
> _Some dialogue taken from the chapter, "Farewell to Lórien."_
> 
> And now, a comic!
> 
> [](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/63441988103/this-makes-far-more-sense-in-my-headxd-newest)  
>  _Mahal loves his children, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/63441988103/this-makes-far-more-sense-in-my-headxd-newest)_  
>  (Click the image for the rest!!!)


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The phenomenal[notanightlight](notanightlight.tumblr.com) has drawn a [delightful mini-comic inspired by Sansûkh](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/60153081631/a-little-bit-of-goofiness-inspired-by-the) featuring Fíli and Kíli! (also if you haven't seen [this go see it now now now](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/58914986874/legolas-the-shorn)_ )
> 
> _And the glorious genius that is[jeza-red](jeza-red.tumblr.com) drew [Thorin and Frerin](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/60240001312/determamfidds-sansukh-has-such-perfect). And it is THEM, and it is heartbreaking and beautiful._
> 
> _Which in turn led to me writing a gift-fic one shot set in the Sansûkhiverse:[Twelve Months and Fifty Years](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/60332520348/sansukh-side-fic-twelve-months-and-fifty-years)._
> 
> _Which led to Jeza drawing[Frís and Frerin](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/60426633437/because-frerin-needs-all-the-hugs-he-can-get-and)._
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Zhori daughter of Yori_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  _Zhori the Weaver, by[FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/62395534755/zhori-the-weaver-by-yorikosakakibara-finally) ([YorikoSakakibara](http://yorikosakakibara.deviantart.com/art/Zhori-The-Weaver-403229234))_   
> 
> 
> Zhori was a middle-class weaver, descended in direct line through her mothers from the famously controversial concubine of the 25th century of the Third Age, Ymrís. This was a matter of shame for the family, who did their best to keep the matter hushed up. Zhori was very beautiful, with soft brown hair that silvered early in her life, a full and luxurious beard, and a stout and sturdy frame. She was reasonably well-to-do, comfortably set up, and her beauty attracted many admirers. However, Zhori, a life-long romantic at heart, was unfortunately terribly unlucky in love. She did not have a One, and spent her whole life searching. Her first husband, a handsome young miner, found his One and left Zhori soon after the birth of their son, Dori. They remained in touch, and she held no ill-will towards him. Zhori remained alone for fifty years before she tried her luck at love again. Her second husband was a dashing rogue and a charmer, and he was killed in a game of chance while Zhori was pregnant with her second son, Nori. Late in her life she was surprised by the advances of a fellow weaver, and her third son, Ori, was conceived out of wedlock. Her sons were fiercely protective of their mother, and rather than trace their parentage through the paternal line (as is usual for male Dwarrows, just as tracing through the matrilineal line is usual for Dwarrowdams), they habitually referred to themselves as the 'sons of Zhori'. She was one of the few Dwarrows to die of old age in the turmoil of the past two centuries, passing away peacefully in her sleep in Ered Luin when Ori was still very young.
> 
> * * *

The noise was deafening. The forge was crammed to the gills with Dwarrows, all shouting and growling and gesticulating. It was hot and steamy, what with so many bodies in the room. Hrera seemed quite put out, and she pursed her lips in disapproval at some of the language used.

At the forge door, yet more Dwarrows tried to crane around the bodies of Fíli, Kíli, Frerin and Óin, their curious eyes alighting on Thorin and fixing there.

It was disconcerting, to say the least. Thorin was no stranger to being the centre of attention, but now it was entirely different. Now he was not their King. His mother had of course mentioned that Frerin's mad dash through the Halls had set every tongue to waggling about the Quest and Gimli and Thorin's vigil. Yet he hadn't seen any evidence of the gossip during his enforced rest. Now – now he could see it. It was overwhelmingly obvious.

Thrór held up his hands, and the squabbling, gossiping Dwarrows settled down (but not before Bifur headbutted Nori quite hard). "All right," said Thrór wearily. "That's quite enough of that. Let's get to it, shall we?"

Thorin ignored the eyes that flickered to him as he stood and took the place at his grandfather's right. The surge of déjà vu was nearly overwhelming. How many years had he stood at his grandfather's right, little more than a pride-filled child, watching him settle dispute after dispute?

"Just a moment!" called Fíli, strain evident in his voice. "Wait up a moment, will you?"

"What is it now?"

"I can't get the damned door closed, is what!" he snapped back, and Thrór pinched the bridge of his nose and made an exasperated sound between his teeth.

"Right," said Nori flatly, and he turned and began to walk slowly for the door, opening one side of his coat as he did so and reaching within with his free hand. Every curious face in the doorway blanched at what they saw (Thorin idly wondered which weapon it was this time, the hook-pointed knives or the throwing darts) and Fíli was able to slam the door shut as they backed off.

"Thanks," he said, puffing. Beside him, Frerin groaned and leaned heavily against the door.

Nori closed his jerkin, and grinned broadly. "My distinct pleasure."

"Maybe now we can begin?" Thorin said, and he glanced at his father, who nodded back firmly.

"What's this all about, laddie?" Balin said, leaning forward and tipping his head.

Thorin took a breath. "It has... it has come to my attention that we are not approaching this problem in the most efficient way."

Óin choked, and then he began to chuckle helplessly. Thorin sent him a dark and dangerous look, but the healer was too far gone in mirth and could only wave a hand weakly for Thorin to continue.

"I cannot maintain my present state," Thorin said bluntly, irritated. "Events are moving swiftly, and if we are to assist Middle Earth in any way from this eternal place, we must be more coordinated."

"Ah," Balin said, and he leaned back, his face thoughtful. Then he squinted at Thorin. "Has this anything to do with all the rumours?"

"What do the rumours say?" Thorin countered.

Balin smiled. "That you watch the Fellowship day and night. That Gimli son of Glóin has reached out his hand in friendship to a traitor's son, and an Elf besides. That you fainted in the starlight of Gimlîn-zâram."

His grandfather's hand landed comfortingly on his shoulder, and Thorin steeled his jaw. "All true."

The room erupted into shouting again, and Thorin stepped forward, his eyes flashing. "Shazara!" he snarled, and the assembled Dwarrows settled once more with anger written across their faces.

"The rumours are but a part of it," said Frerin grimly. "There's more."

"More!" Óin massaged his brow. "It's bad enough so far. I shudder t' think!"

"Just you wait til you hear what your nephew's been up to," Frerin muttered, and Thorin sent his brother a quelling look as Óin flinched and slid down in his chair.

"We need to work out a plan," Thorin said, lifting his voice to carry to the back of the packed chamber. "We need to work out how to share information more effectively, how to use my Gift where it is needed, and how to reach each other swiftly. We have Dwarrows of skill amongst us. Balin, you have the most experience at such things. What do you advise?"

Balin hummed, nodding. "It's a fine idea, Thorin," he said, and then looked up at him from under his bushy brows. "And I'm sensing that it's not entirely yours."

"Never mind that," Thorin growled, determinedly keeping his gaze away from his father.

"Let's see. We'd need a regular conference," Balin mused, and he lifted a hand in an age-old motion that immediately had Ori diving for ink and paper. "We'd need runners, like in wartime. We should have designated teams for each division, an' they could report to a central intelligence..."

"You're suggesting there's such a thing as intelligence in this lot," Hrera said, rolling her eyes. Balin ignored her with supreme unconcern.

"I advise, lad, that we do not make you the focal point for all information," he said, and he held up a finger when Thorin opened his mouth to object. "No, you will have enough to do, leading us through these times. Someone else should receive information, sort through it, dispatch it to where it is needed, and give you the crucial points. You'd need someone canny, someone very intelligent and perceptive. Someone who understands what is important to you."

"Someone like me," said Frís, standing up. "I volunteer."

"Amad," Thorin said, stunned. Frís turned her gentle smile upon him.

"Hush, my son."

Thráin raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps _now_ you'll believe me when I tell you we're here to help?"

Balin looked between them, before he made a gesture to Ori that had him scribbling quickly. Through his shock, Thorin remembered that the pair had worked nearly sixty years side-by-side in exactly this capacity. "Lady Frís shall be our central information source, then," he said, and clasped his hands in satisfaction. "A fine choice."

"All information should therefore be brought to me," she said, lifting her chin. Her deep blue eyes were hard with resolve.

That would work, Thorin thought dimly. That would work very well.

Frís stepped forward and cast her gaze over the nodding crowd. "I would like to put forward that Lord Balin here remain in the role he has so effortlessly resumed – that of Seneschal and First Advisor. All orders should come through him, if they are not from Thorin himself."

"Yes," Thorin heard himself say. Balin smiled.

"I never did get to serve you, my King, did I?"

"You never stopped," Thorin said, and gave a small smile in return. "And now I must prevail upon your loyalty again, my friend."

"Thought you'd never ask, laddie." Balin flicked his fingers to Ori, who grinned and wrote down Balin's name with a flourish.

"Seems Ori has himself a job, too," said Kíli, and Ori shrugged.

"Just like old times," he said, and Nori snorted.

"Here we go again. Moaning over split nibs, snapping at every Dwarrow over inks and paper. What've you done?"

"Now, the work itself," Thorin said, and he sighed. Thrór clasped his shoulder, his eyebrows rising significantly.

"First, zabadâl, we should share what we have. It will make no sense without context."

Hrera opened her mouth to protest, but Thrór shook his head sharply at her. It was the King under the Mountain, not her husband, who said, "Thorin, Crown Prince of Erebor. Report."

His heels snapped together, and his back straightened automatically. "Gimli and the Fellowship leave Lothlórien via the great river Anduin," he said. "The leader, the Man Aragorn, does not know which path to take when the river reaches Rauros-falls. Their company grows closer due to their great sorrow at losing Gandalf. The Ringbearer grows weary, and the Ring calls to Boromir of Gondor, who above all things fears for his people."

He took a deep breath, and Thráin softly said, "strength, my son."

Thorin fixed his eyes upon the torch-sconces upon the walls as he continued, the words feeling as though they were studded with glass and dragged out of him by pliers. "Gimli is well and hale. He has done the unthinkable, and befriended the Elf, Legolas son of Thranduil. He shares our secrets with the Elf, and they find ease in the other's company."

Óin made a horrified, defeated noise and covered his eyes. As though that was some pre-arranged signal, the room then exploded once more into shouting and squabbling, everyone talking at once. Those who supported the friendship between Gimli and the Elf were facing off against those who were against it - and Thorin could not help but notice that the 'for' camp was much smaller than the 'against' camp. Still, the 'for' camp were making up for lost numbers with sheer unadulterated _noise._

"... _your_ damned cousin, must get it from..."

"That Elf, he can't be trusted to keep faith with..."

"Gimli is a grown Dwarrow and can make his own..."

"Oh, and you expect a bloody weed-eater to keep the secrets of Dwarves..."

"Could change everything! It could heal the..."

"Nothing could change the way we..."

"Aye, and the slaughter of the Petty-Dwarves! Can that ever be..."

"But we have also..."

"That Elf is descended in direct line from Elves of Doriath, and yet _he_ can see past..."

"Don't you _dare_ bring up Doriath with me, boy!"

"Kulhu ma sakhizu ya izzûghizu, ma mahtadadizu ya 'agulhizu!"

"He's _Thranduil's son!"_

"They could bring peace between our..."

"One Dwarf, one Elf – bring peace! Balderdash!"

"Aye, and trees will walk around on legs next!"

"Madness, he cannot be serious..."

Thorin set his shoulders. This was getting them nowhere.

"That's my _best friend!_ He wouldn't..."

"Aye, and your best friend is replacin' you with a tree-shagger now, isn't..."

"Say that again, and you'll be eating my axe next!"

"...spoke of Mahal, and he _trusts_ him! He promised!"

"The promise of an Elf isn't worth the paper it's written on!"

"SHAZARA!" Thorin roared, and he was echoed by the booming voice of Thráin, the rumble of Fundin, and, surprisingly, the higher shout of Ori.

"This is getting us nowhere," the scribe said into the lull following the din. He glared at everyone crossly. "And if you think I'm writing down any of this drivel, think again!"

"Split nibs," Nori hissed urgently. "I warn ya, don't bloody annoy him!"

"We will agree to disagree," said Thorin curtly, fixing everyone with a hard stare. Many Dwarrows bristled, but some looked rather shame-faced at the ridiculous display. "The facts stand: Gimli Gloinul has befriended Legolas Thranduilion. You may not like it. _I_ do not. But it is not our place to make choices for the living. All here may not be on the same side in this matter, but all here are most definitely on _Gimli's_ side, and that should be kept in mind."

"That's not all, though," Frerin said, and then he shrank a little under Thorin's quick frown. "Um. Want me to tell them about the hair, nadadel?"

"I will tell it," he said, and he pressed his lips together and folded his arms. "I will have your word that no such childish bickering will follow this news. Am I understood?"

"Aye." "Sorry, uncle." "Aye, laddie." "Sorry, Thorin." "Won't happen again." _"It might." "Shut up."_

"Very well. The Elf-witch of the Golden wood made Gimli a gift," Thorin said, and his teeth clenched together, the muscles in the hinge of his jaw tensing. "A gift of three hairs from her head. I since have learned that this is no commonplace thing, and that he has made history by receiving them. A Dwarf has received that which was refused to a mighty Elf. Gimli does not know, but the Elves of Lothlórien thereafter looked upon him..." he paused, and carefully chose his words, "differently."

"An Elf-lord wanted her hair, long long ago," Frerin murmured. "But she said no."

"It was astonishment," Thorin remembered, his thoughts flying back to the slack, impassive faces of the Lórien Elves, the speechless wonder of Thranduil's son. "Through her gift and his eloquence they finally saw him as more than a Naug, but as a being of great feeling and nobility. They looked upon my kinsman with awe."

There was a hushed silence. Balin was flushed with pride in his cousin, and Óin slumped back in his seat again, his face dumbfounded.

"Might want to move onto other news," muttered Frís.

"Rivendell – Rivendell remains as it was," Thorin said, and then his throat abruptly closed and he sat down heavily upon the workbench. He knew his scowl was back, but he could not seem to shift it. His last visit with Bilbo was still too fresh.

"Well done," said Frís, and she patted his hand.

"Who was at Erebor last?" Gróin said (with rather compassionate timing, thought Thorin bleakly).

"Me," said Ori, raising his stylus.

"Actually, I think it was me," said another voice, and Thorin glanced up to see the honey-coloured head of Víli son of Vár move to the front of the crowd. His young, merry-faced brother-in-law looked sheepish. "I was there at dawn. Wanted to say good morning, you know."

Víli had never missed a single morning's visit to Dís, not in the one hundred and forty years since his death.

Fíli and Kíli gave their father a startled look, before they scooted forward with wide eyes. "What's going on? Is Mum all right?" demanded Fíli.

"Now, button up m'boys, your mother's fine," Víli said, and he rubbed at his ear with an awkward shrug. "I, er. Seems there's a bit o' tension under the Mountain this morning. Not everyone's happy that there are Elves in Erebor, especially Thranduil's people. There's a lot of talk about how he let us down, all those years ago, with the Dragon and everything. Dís is running herself ragged trying to keep the more... fanatical Dwarrows out of their path."

Ori winced. "They were happy enough to see them yesterday. The Stonehelm came riding up to the Gates with the Elves all behind him, and they all cheered and cheered and cheered."

"Some things are not easily forgotten," sighed Balin.

"The Stonehelm is back, and he actually convinced Thranduil?" said Thrór, frozen in shock.

"Aye, did a right proper job of it," said Bifur, nodding. "I saw the whole thing. He's a fine young Lord, that one: made his father proud."

"Erebor does not stand alone," said Fundin with a great exhale of relief. A few other Dwarrows nodded in approval, and Thrór closed his eyes and tipped back his great white head with a shudder of emotion.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, echoed by Balin and Frerin.

"Do we know about the Dalefolk yet?" Thorin asked, looking around at the assembled Dwarves. There was some murmuring, but the general consensus seemed to be 'no'. "Then we will assume that King Brand still will not join in the struggle against Mordor," he sighed, and turned back to Víli. "Was there more?"

"Not really, no," Víli said, and he smiled ruefully. "I was a bit distracted. Usually am."

Thorin nodded once. "Thank you."

"Well, if there's going to be an Erebor watch," Víli began and he grinned his bright, impish grin, his cheeks dimpling. "Seein' as I'm already there and all..."

"We need teams, an' shifts," said Óin firmly, and Balin raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? How would you know?"

Óin snorted loudly. "Because I ran a _hospital,_ y' daft ole coot. You want to know scheduling? You want to know how to run an efficient twenty-four hour detail? Go run a hospital."

"Óin makes a fair point," Thorin said. "What do you suggest?"

"You need a team o' Dwarrows that all know their roles," Óin said, ticking it off on his fingers. "Y' don't want anyone treadin' on anyone else's toes. One person in charge, that's important, otherwise you end up with every bugger thinkin' they're in charge and I don't need to tell you how much fun _that_ would be. Different jobs fer different folk. Different areas, too, and different shifts. Then you make sure that everyone's got what they need to do the job."

"This is good," mumbled Ori, scribbling furiously. "Very good! So how do we choose our teams?"

"Well, I'll take care of Erebor in the mornings, obviously," said Víli.

"If it be the will of this Council..." said Thrór, his head tipping forward once more, "I will lead our Erebor contingent."

There was a grateful pause, and it was in that moment that Thorin recalled that his grandfather had once achieved feats of greatness. He had lost his whole family, save a brother, thanks to the ice-worm of the Grey Mountains, but it had not daunted him. He had recolonised the empty mountain of Erebor, amassed incredible wealth, and before the Dragon came he had reigned over a prosperous peace for over a century. Most Dwarrows remembered those days as golden and blessed, and even the songs of the Lake-Men of Esgaroth praised Thrór in glowing terms. There had been no mention of the gold-sickness, nor Azanulbizar.

Perhaps this was what his mother meant when she said that there was good to be learned from a life, as well as bad.

Many faces shone with respect. "Aye, Majesty," said the old warrior Náli, ducking his head.

"I will lead the watch upon the Fellowship," Thorin said, and then he held up his hand against the protests that began to fall from the lips of Fíli, Kíli, Frerin, and his parents. "No, I will not be the only watcher! I will abide by the schedule we create. But I will not relinquish my star to another's eyes."

Óin's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. " _His_ star?"

Kíli pulled a face. "Um. So Thorin gets obsessive, right? And Gimli's been a sort of safe place for nearly eighty years..."

"Enough, brother," whispered Fíli, tugging his sleeve. "You're getting the Glare of Doom."

"Oh. Tell you later, Óin."

"How will we know when we are to watch?" asked Lóni, still glowering at Fundin. The pair had nearly come to blows in the argument earlier.

"We will put the schedule up somewhere," Ori said, still writing furiously. "Somewhere everyone knows to look."

"My smithy door," Thorin offered, and a few nods greeted this.

"That's if the crowd out there ever move away from it," grumbled Gróin.

"I can have something drafted by tonight," Ori said, scratching at his head with the carved wooden grip of his pen. "Shouldn't be too hard. I'll pass around a sheet now, and everyone can write down which detail and which time they'd prefer. Don't waste my ink!"

Thrór nodded in approval, and Thorin met his mother's eyes. She was smiling.

"Jobs," Óin reminded them.

"Well, we have two detail leaders, and we'll need at least two more," said Balin thoughtfully. "Erebor, the Fellowship, the Elves, and the Men."

"Someone with some sense should make sure you lot know what you are doing," said Hrera imperiously, standing up.

Thrór smiled. "Aye, dear, you're just the Dwarrowdam."

"I could perhaps take the last, aye?" said Balin, and he shrugged. "I'm sure that if you can run one o' these and take on another role, then I can too. You know, this is a really very good idea. We shouldae done this long ago, instead of just turning up when you told us to."

Seven sets of eyes turned on Thorin to give him a deeply, _deeply_ smug look. He mustered every ounce of dignity he had ever possessed (which was a great deal, as a matter of fact), and disregarded them with sublime indifference.

"Right," said Ori distractedly. "What else?"

"Runners, definitely, in case something happens in the waters and Thorin's Gift is needed while he is elsewhere," said Fundin, pulling at his beard in thought.

"Frerin," said Thorin immediately. His brother wrinkled his nose.

"Runner? Sounds dull. Why me?"

Thorin opened his mouth to say, 'you're the youngest,' but his mother interrupted him with a sharp look.

"Because you're the fastest, dear," said Frís, giving her younger son a pat on the shoulder. "Come now, cheer up. Your nephews should share that duty with you."

"What? Us?" Kíli blurted, but Fíli stood and drew himself up tall.

"We'll do it." He glanced over at Thorin. "Be proud to."

Thorin gave his nephews a grateful smile. "Thank you, namadul."

"Also, we'll need someone in each party to write down what has happened during each shift and give it to the Lady Frís," continued Ori, writing down the names of Frerin, Fíli and Kíli.

"Well, that rules me out," said Bifur wryly.

"And me," sighed Náli. "Never got the hang of it. Too fiddly."

It sometimes escaped Thorin that his privileged youth had given him skills he took entirely for granted, such as writing and reading. He carefully hid his surprise. The miner and the old warrior would not appreciate it in the slightest.

"Anyone?" Ori said, tapping his fingers against his paper. "All you'd need to do is let the Lady Frís know the most important details."

"I could do that," said Óin, tipping his head. "I'm a dab hand at reports. Got t' be, when you're-"

"—running a hospital," chimed in Frerin, Hrera, Frár, Fundin and Víli simultaneously. Óin folded his arms and glowered indiscriminately at everyone.

"I'll take it on, son," said Thráin, and he shrugged. "Better than bein' a runner."

Frerin scowled.

"I could make reports," said Frár in his quiet, deep voice, and he was echoed by Gróin.

"Now for the watchers themselves," said Thrór.

"How do you assign different jobs to _watchers?"_ wondered Ori. "Do they watch different things?"

"Someone to watch big things, someone to watch little things?" suggested Lóni.

"No, no, no!" Nori sighed in exasperation. "That isn't how it's done. You gotta have someone rovin', moving about, scoping it out, and another one in a fixed place where all the action is happening. That way you get a better picture."

Ori was looking at his brother as though he was a vein of mithril. "Nori!"

"What?"

"You can be our teacher! Our guide!"

"I can do _what now?!"_

"You know how to be sneaky better than any Dwarrow alive!" Ori said excitedly, and he leaned in to Nori and tugged insistently at his sleeve.

"But we're dead?" Kíli whispered, and Fíli hushed him.

" _Don't_ go volunteerin' a bloke like that!" Nori wheezed, covering his eyes with his hand.

"You are perfect for this, though!" Ori said, his eyes going very round. Thorin frowned, and then he realised that Ori was trying to replicate the 'Hobbity Big Sad Eyes effect', as he called it. "Come on, Noriiiii..."

"Oh, don't, stop it, yer gonna break your face," Nori muttered, and he nodded reluctantly. "Must've lost my mind. _Again."_

"Will you teach us?"

Nori grimaced, and then he made a sign of assent. "Fine, yes. But I'd like t' make it known that this was done under brotherly duress."

"What is needed?" said Hrera.

"Two of my lads in each team, watching closely for every missed detail. They'll be able to help the report-makers after," Nori said in resignation. "I need fellows who can be patient, yes? Not you big-voiced hot-tempered impatient noble types."

"Bifur," Thorin said, remembering Thráin's words. His father folded his arms in satisfaction, his eyes glittering.

"Perfect," Nori said with a rather evil-looking smile.

"Aye, zabadâl belkul?" said Bifur, confused. Balin slapped his back.

"How would you like to be a spy?"

Bifur scratched at his scar, and then he shrugged agreement. "Right then," said Nori. "Who else?"

Hands around the room began to shoot up, and Thorin watched his people throw themselves into this new work with their usual gruff enthusiasm. Ori began writing as fast as his fingers could move, and Nori was standing and holding up his hands, shaking his head as the Lords Náin and Farin badgered him to be a part of the special detail. "This is going to work," said Thorin to himself.

"It surely is," said Thráin, clapping him on the back. "It surely is."

* * *

"Grandfather."

Thrór looked up from his careful enamelling. Like Thorin, Thrór would not touch gold nor mithril ever again. These days he contented the urge to create that ran through all Dwarves through other means and mediums. "Ah, the schedule is ready then?"

"Ori put it on my door not ten minutes ago," Thorin said, and he rubbed at the back of his neck.

Thrór gave him a pointed look, his bushy eyebrows lifting. "Ah. And you are not scheduled soon enough for your liking, is that it?"

"Yes." He saw no need to dissemble. "We begin tomorrow, but I would visit Bilbo and Gimli now, if I could."

Thrór sighed and sat up straight. His back clicked audibly, and he put a hand to it as he winced. "Well, I'll come get you at dinner. I will expect no argument from you, understood?"

It was galling to be spoken to in such a way, even by his grandfather and King. "I understand," he muttered.

Thrór's mouth quirked. "Ah, stung your pride, have I? Well, you've still got a thing or two to learn, m'lad. Off with you, then, you're wasting your own time."

Thorin inclined his head, not trusting himself to speak, and turned on his heel and strode from Thrór's forge directly for the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

The light was gentle this time, embracing him and tenderly bringing him to the gardens of Rivendell. Bilbo sat, nodding, upon a little bench that had obviously been cut down to Hobbit size. Thorin examined it critically, and sniffed. A purpose-built one would have served better. The seat was still too deep, and the back far too high, despite the shortened legs.

He crouched down before his Hobbit and took in his face, smoothed and lax in sleep. Bilbo's hands twitched in his slumber, and his mouth moved around the shapes of words. "Dreaming then, my treasure?" he said softly, and the desire to touch that wrinkled brow, to cup the wasted cheeks in his hands and softly kiss the old Burglar was nearly irresistible. "May they be sweet."

A lowered voice caught his ear, and he turned to see the Lord Elrond speaking with the Elf who had greeted them, all those years ago. He could not recall the name. "His mind wanders," Elrond said.

"Yes," the elf sighed, and he glanced over at Bilbo. "When he is sharp, he is as sharp as he ever was. Yet sometimes he drifts into the past, and sometimes he loses track of names. I have read that it is a common complaint amongst mortals, that in their old age they may lose sight of the present."

Thorin's head whipped back to Bilbo, and his hands clenched into fists. "Do you drift, Bilbo?" he said, saddened and regretful. A pang threaded through his chest, lodging in his throat. Somehow he had never considered that particular danger of age. Not in Bilbo: not ever in Bilbo. His Hobbit was canny and witty, bright and clever, with a silver tongue and a ready pen, with words that dripped and danced from lips and hands. His Hobbit was imperious at times, and insightful, and had a memory like an oliphaunt. To think of Bilbo losing his dazzling words and his quick mind hurt like a wound.

"Stay with him, Lindir," said Elrond quietly. "Bilbo Baggins is still a great and worthy creature, no matter his state of mind. Make him comfortable, and do not allow others to show surprise or horror when he loses his train of thought."

Lindir nodded gravely, and Thorin growled like a wounded animal.

"No," he snarled, and closed his eyes. He would not stay. He would not stay to hear these Elves discuss his Hobbit's failing grasp on himself.

He could not bear it.

The stars of Gimlîn-zâram were even kinder with him as they bore him away, as if they knew how fragile he felt.

He opened his eyes, feeling the tremor of his heart beneath his breath. A great snaking expanse of water greeted him, blinding in the late afternoon sun, and he shaded his eyes to see two grey boats of Lothlórien moving along the surface before him. He stood in the bow of the third.

"Anduin," he murmured, and pushed any thought of Bilbo and age and loss from his mind. He could be sorrowful later. Gimli waited.

"I cannae get the hang o' this," his star growled disconsolately, and Thorin squinted to see Gimli wrestling with the too-long paddle. In the stern of the slender boat, the (damned) Elf sat with his hand covering his mouth. His narrow shoulders were shaking with laughter.

"You are using too much power," Legolas said after he had controlled himself, but the laughter was still present in his voice. "The boat is not heavy as stone, and does not need such effort! No wonder we spin in circles."

"Effort!" Gimli snorted, and blew at a lock of hair that had escaped from under his helm to hang in his eyes. "That was no effort at all! Do you mean to say I need to use even less than that?"

Legolas' smile fell into an expression of speculative confusion. "I thought..." he began, and then he shook his head. "Dwarves surely are a hardy people. I thought you must have been using your full strength."

"Hardly," Gimli said, a trifle smugly. "So, these things require a more delicate touch, do they? I can do that. Two strokes either side, wasn't it?"

"If the current allows, yes," Legolas said, and he watched as Gimli grasped the paddle again in his broad brown hands. "Perhaps if you held the paddle further up the handle...?"

"Do you jest with me?" Gimli said, cocking an eyebrow. "Comments on my height are neither welcome nor polite."

"I am sorry. I meant no offense," Legolas said carefully.

Thorin gritted his teeth, but forebore to comment.

Gimli suddenly grinned. "Unless they're funny."

Legolas laughed and shook his head. "I will bear it in mind."

[ ](http://yorikosakakibara.deviantart.com/art/Sansukh-Ch-18-Illustration-399658294)

  


_On the River Anduin, by[FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/60977895854/sansukh-ch-18-illustration-by-yorikosakakibara) ([YorikoSakakibara](http://yorikosakakibara.deviantart.com/art/Sansukh-Ch-18-Illustration-399658294))_

Adjusting his grip, Gimli then stroked the paddle through the water with wary control. The boat began to move forward, and he let out a soft, 'ah!' of satisfaction. Then he plied the paddle upon the other side of the boat, and soon he was making some decent progress. "There," he said in satisfaction. "I believe I have found the trick of it."

Legolas was smiling. "Truly, you have skilled hands, Master Gimli. I have known Elves who have taken days to master this."

"Then they pay no attention," Gimli said, and he blew at the stubborn lock of hair again. "This floating leaf moves side to side with every stroke, and the weight shifts, and the trajectory. It is like allowing for the weight of a mine-cart as it moves around a corner, but the tunnel is a river and the weight is ours and not a load of iron-ore."

"Have you only ever mined iron, then?" Legolas asked, and the fascination he had previously shown was back upon his fair face.

"Aye," Gimli said, and made a noise of irritation as he swiped at the recalcitrant red hair, tucking it behind his round ear. "Though the mines of Erebor are far richer and finer than those old holes of Ered Luin. They had been worked out long before a Longbeard ever stepped into those ruins. Still, we did what we could. It kept most of us fed."

"Most?" The Elf's sharp ears picked up the nuance, and Gimli's lips pressed into a thin line.

"I do not think you need to hear about the hardships of my people after the dragon came," he said, his voice tight. "I feel we will stray into dangerous topics if we continue."

Legolas frowned, and then he sighed. "You are most likely correct," he said sadly.

"You should tell him, Gimli," Thorin snarled, and he glared at the Elf. "Tell the son of Thranduil what we lived through, thanks to his father's desertion."

Gimli's head jerked up. "Melhekhel," he said, a smile spreading over his face.

"He is back?" Legolas said, his eyes widening until the whites showed. He looked nervous, and swallowed in a most unElvish fashion. "Oh. That's... good."

"I wonder where you go, my Lord," Gimli said, and he gave two more strokes of the paddle, and then he shrugged. "I suspect it is not for me to know. I am glad you are back. Do you know, we approach the Argonath? I have heard tales of these great works of stone made by Men in the elder days, but I have never seen them."

"Nor have I," Thorin said, and he deliberately turned his back on the Elf and smiled upon his star. "You have a new skill, I see."

"It is unlikely a Dwarf will ever be called upon for boatcraft," Gimli laughed. "Still, it's not wholly unpleasant. Relaxing, really."

"I thought you were to be seasick," Thorin said archly. Gimli's presence was working its usual magic. He could feel the tension bleeding away from his mind, and his hands unclenched and relaxed upon his thighs. The sadness brought on by his brief stop at Rivendell was soothed, and the illusion of conversation with this Dwarrow made his heart lighter.

"I wouldn't be seasick on a little river such as this!" Gimli grumbled, and Legolas made an indistinct noise in his throat.

"It is so strange to hear you speak to the air as though it answers you," he said, shaking his head again. "Strange indeed!"

"Ach, an Elf calls a Dwarf strange? That is a rare joke," Gimli scoffed, his eyes twinkling. "And for your information, my kinsman does answer me. I know he does. I feel it, though I do not hear it with my ears."

"Such ears you have, I should have thought you could hear everything," Legolas murmured.

"I wouldn't be makin' fun of anyone's ears if I were you, pointy," Gimli said peaceably.

" _Pointy_!?"

"That'll teach you to mock a Dwarf's height," Gimli said, and he grinned again.

"Pointy," Legolas said under his breath, scowling, and one of his hands surreptitiously crept up to finger the sharp tip of his ear.

"The trees are thinning on the eastern bank," Gimli said, nodding. "We draw nearer to the Emyn Muil."

Legolas left his ear, and drew his knees up. "Has Aragorn confided in you which way we turn once we reach Tol Brandir and Rauros-falls?"

"Nay, not yet," Gimli sighed. "I do not know what we will do. Mordor lies east, but Boromir will travel back to his own city no matter the path the Ring may take. I know Aragorn's heart longs for the sight of Minas Tirith. I heard him speaking of it to Boromir, back in Lórien."

"And I," Legolas said. "I did not know he had served in Gondor's armies."

"How many aliases does one Man need?" Gimli said, and he harrumphed. "A shame he has never served under his own name."

"I do not think he even knows which is his anymore," Legolas said sadly. "He is Aragorn to the Fellowship, Strider to the North, Thorongil in Rohan and Gondor, Elessar to the Lady Galadriel, and Estel to Lord Elrond. It must be difficult."

Gimli shrugged easily. "Like wearing a different jerkin," he said.

Legolas blinked, and then he turned his unnerving stare upon the Dwarf. "You say this as though you know what it is to bear another name," he said.

"Aye, I do, don't I?" Gimli carefully navigated an eddy and turned his gaze ahead, looking out over the expanse of the Great River. "Never you mind, lad. That's not for you to know."

"Are we not friends?" Legolas challenged. "Come, Gimli, tell me! Where and when did you assume this name?"

"At my birth," Gimli said shortly, and his eyes turned flinty. "And no, I will say no more."

Thorin groaned. "Finally, you learn some discretion, inùdoy."

"At your _birth?_ Then is Gimli not your name?" Legolas seemed hurt, his chin lowering and his eyes skittering away.

"Gimli is my name, aye," the Dwarf said, and he sighed, his head dropping to his chest. "It is my use-name... my, we call them 'daylight-names' or 'sky-names'. My father chose it for me. I have another, deeper name, never to be spoken except to my One and my closest family; never to be said under an open sky; never to be written, not even on my tomb. I am sorry if I offended you. It is a..." his eyes searched the sky, "delicate subject amongst Dwarrows. None give their Dark-names lightly."

Legolas' lips parted in awe, and he gazed upon Gimli with fascination. "We had heard rumours that Dwarves had special names," he said. Gimli grunted.

"It is true."

Thorin let out a strangled shout of irritation. "Gimli! You mad red-headed fool! _You just said you would tell him no more!"_

"Ah, he is angered. You see? Delicate subject," Gimli said. "You do not know the curiosity of the Elves, Lord. He would have badgered me with his sad looks and impertinent questions until I had given him more than I have."

"I cannot decide whether I should be offended or no," Legolas said.

"Best not," Gimli said, his mouth twitching. Thorin could barely believe that the outrageous Dwarrow was in fact _hiding_ a _smile_. "There's enough offense flying around here as it is."

"True," Legolas said mockingly. "But hardly surprising. You are a Dwarf, after all."

Gimli turned the paddle with a flick of his wrist, and an arc of water soared into the air to soak the Elf's head. Thorin could not stay angry at the sight of Legolas' pale hair plastered to his skull, his eyes blazing, while Gimli tipped his head back and laughed his hearty, booming laugh.

"Laugh now, Master Dwarf," said Legolas through gritted teeth. "I warn you, my revenge will be swift and merciless."

"Pfft, I'm all a-quiver," Gimli retorted, and his deep chuckles floated out over the water for the next ten minutes.

Thorin allowed the gentle motion of the boat wash his mind clear. The low sound of Gimli's laughter, the mutters of the Elf, even the swish of the paddle became dull and muted as he leaned back in the bow and let his thoughts wander. The sharp pang of grief that Rivendell had caused was still there. His heart still ached for his Bilbo, and it would not lessen any time soon. Yet the peace of this moment... Thorin had never appreciated peace in his life. He had never sought it out.

He was beginning to see the attraction.

Abruptly Legolas stood, his Elven eyes fixed on the sky. Gimli swore vociferously in Khuzdul as the boat rocked, and Thorin was jerked from his reverie.

"You crazy Elf, are you trying to send us both into the water!" Gimli barked.

"Do you see that?" Legolas said, his voice quick and high. His nostrils were pinched with sudden fear. "Do you see that dark shape in the sky?"

Gimli and Thorin turned, and Gimli made a rough sound. "I see nothing but sky and clouds. What is it?"

"That darkness..." Legolas said, and he quailed. His face seemed even paler with his golden hair slicked flat against his head. He unslung his bow and fitted an arrow with hands as quick as blinking.

Gimli scowled, and then he tipped his head up again, craning at the sky. Then he blanched.

"I see it," Thorin breathed.

"It feels so cold," Gimli said, his hands stilling on the paddle and his fingers tightening around the handle as though it were his axe. "So foul. Like the Balrog..."

Suddenly, the air rang with a high, piercing shriek. In the boat ahead, Frodo leaned forward, clutching at his shoulder and panting. Sam hovered, his face white and filled with dread.

"Tolo na," Legolas whispered. "Elbereth Gilthoniel!" And then he loosed the arrow with a motion so elegant it almost seemed as though he caressed the air.

The thin, high scream abruptly cut off, and the dark shape dropped from the sky.

Gimli let out a long gusty breath, shuddering. "That was a fine shot, laddie."

"But who can say what it hit?" Legolas remained standing, his far-sighted eyes still searching where the dark shape had fallen. "That scream! I have never heard such a cry."

"But Frodo has," Thorin said, and turned back to the young Hobbit. Sam was washing his face with river water, and Frodo had some colour back. The resilient Hobbit gently pushed his friend away and spoke quickly to Aragorn, who nodded, but Thorin was too far away to hear the answer.

"Do we stop?" Boromir shouted. "What was that thing?"

"We keep on! The current is swift and carries us away from it!" Aragorn shouted back.

"Frodo! Is Frodo all right?" Pippin said, leaning over the edge of his boat, his impish little face taut with worry.

"I'm well enough," Frodo said, and he rubbed at his shoulder. "Let's keep moving."

"What was it?" Boromir shouted again, and his face was full of concern for the Hobbits.

"I think – no, I will not say," Frodo said, and he turned away.

"Well, praised be the bow of Galadriel and the hand and eye of Legolas!" said Gimli, pulling off his helm and rubbing at his sweat-dotted brow. "That was no hunting eagle, that's for sure."

Legolas smiled. "Thank you, my friend."

"Now sit down before we both end up wet." Gimli picked up the paddle and gave the Elf an expectant look. Legolas paused, and a myriad of expressions flickered over his face: outrage, gratitude, amusement, bewilderment. Then he shook his head and laughed softly, before resuming his seat.

"Take us on, Gimli," he said, gesturing with one slim hand.

The current was indeed swift, and they made good progress for the next hour. Gimli and Legolas spoke but little. At one point Gimli began to sing an old mining tune about a Dwarrowdam and a wolf. The chorus was about how fine she looked in the winter in her wolf-skin stole.

"Your music is so deep and hearty, as though mighty rocks begin dancing and rolling," Legolas commented.

Gimli snorted. "It's a miner's song, lad. Not exactly courtly fare."

"I did not say I disliked it."

"Oh." Gimli frowned a moment, and then he picked up where he had left off, the paddle flashing through the surface of the great river.

When he had finished, Gimli grinned at the Elf. "Now you give us a tune, go on! It will make the journey faster and this tedious work lighter."

"I do not believe you would enjoy our songs."

"Ach, they can't all be about trees and stars and tragedy, can they?"

"What a fascinating observation to make," said Legolas dryly.

"True, though," Thorin grunted.

Gimli grinned. "Are you telling me there are no songs such as the smallfolk sing, not even in their cups?"

"I know a barrel-song," Legolas said, and his face was blank and cold and immobile once more.

"You _dare,_ " snarled Thorin. Gimli's grin faded, and an uncomfortable look crossed his face.

"Well, perhaps it's best not to then."

"Does your kinsman take umbrage?" Legolas said in a distant voice.

"Aye, and then some." Gimli rubbed his hand over his hair, glinting bright shades of ruby and gold and topaz in the sunlight. "Not the most diplomatic thing you could have said, lad."

Thorin folded his arms and sneered at the Elf. "You mock us, and straight to his face. How dare you, son of a traitor, you oath-breaker's spawn, child of a false ally! You profess to be his friend? Ha! You are not fit to wash his feet!"

"Peace!" Gimli boomed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in his thick fingers and groaned loudly. "Ah me, this may get a trifle interesting, will it not? My lord, calm your anger. Legolas meant no offense. Legolas, I am not upset, no need to sit as stiffly as a spear! I would have peace in this boat between the living and the dead, or else I will swim for the shore and trudge alongside the bank, refusing all company. Aye, even yours, Thorin Oakenshield! Shout all you will, I would not answer."

Thorin's mouth snapped shut and his outrage froze in his breast. Gimli was _ordering_ him? _Threatening him?_

Well.

"You have learned your lessons well," he muttered, and sat down beside the younger Dwarf. "To be ignored or banished from your side is the only threat which could have worked."

"Are you angered with me, Lord?" Gimli said quietly.

"No," Thorin sighed. "No, Gimli. I must respect that you have made a choice I dislike. Dislike! It is far too kind a word."

"I am glad you are not wroth," Gimli said, and tension drained from the set of his huge shoulders. "I have two friends here, and I would not have them bickering over my loyalties."

"Are you sure, Gimli?" Legolas said, and his coldness melted into anxiety. "I would sing you a song if I knew one that would not offend. But as you say, they are all trees and starlight... and tragedy."

"Well," Gimli said, and he stretched out his hands. "You can take the oars for a while, and I will have a pipe, and you can sing to me about trees or stars. No tragedy, though. We may see enough of that, before this business is done."

"You are no doubt correct," Legolas said, and moving slowly and carefully they swapped positions. Thorin found himself sitting beside the Elf for the span of a few seconds, before he sprang to his feet and stalked to crowd behind Gimli, glowering at the creature over Gimli's shoulder.

"Why do you feel the need to make time move faster?" Legolas said as he resumed paddling, his head cocked.

Gimli paused in packing his pipe. "Do you not do such a thing? When things are slow and tedious?"

The faint inscrutable frown of the Firstborn crossed Legolas' brow. "I do not understand."

"Well, do Elves ever get bored?"

"Yes," Legolas said. "Particularly with overly noisy Dwarves and their snoring."

"Cheek!" Gimli sat up straight, and then noticed that Legolas was laughing silently. "Oh, was that your revenge? I call that feeble."

"No, no, my revenge will be terrible, you will see," Legolas said, smiling. "To your question, however – it is difficult to explain. To Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they do not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream."

"Hmmph," Gimli said, and his straight brow drew together in thought. "So that's a no?"

Legolas chuckled. "It is a sometimes. Do Dwarves get bored?"

"Aye, often. Usually with Elvish pomposity."

"Oh, very clever," Legolas said mockingly.

"Thank you kindly, I liked it myself." Gimli bowed his head politely, and then lit his pipe. "A Dwarf is rarely bored. The work is never-ending, and beauty calls from every rock and stone and metal. When our hands are busy, we are happy. Still, sometimes the hands are busy doing something remarkably dull, and so songs are needed to make the work new again."

They rounded a bend in the river where the trees hung over the water like trailing fingers, and then the river opened out into a great basin. "Look!" Aragorn said, and he nodded before him.

Gimli looked up and breathed out a Khuzdul oath. A soft gasp of awe came from the Elf. Thorin turned and saw in the distance two great pillars of stone, like sheer pinnacles of towering rock, greyed and weathered by the Ages.

"Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!" Aragorn cried, and then it became clear: two mighty statues, huge human figures of legend, holding out their hands in a gesture of warning. Each frowned upon the North with noble brows and blurred eyes, the ancient work crumbling away. The silent wardens of the ancient kingdom still stood, guarding their land, mouldering in stone yet still possessed of great power and majesty. Thorin had never seen such huge works of stone before, and he gasped in astonishment and appreciation.

"Ukratel," he whispered and it was echoed by Gimli.

"Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion, my sires of old," he dimly heard Aragorn saying. Then the Man sighed and he bowed his head. "Would that Gandalf were here! How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city! But whither now shall I go?"

"Do we take the portage way over upon Amon Hen?" called Boromir. In his boat, Pippin and Merry were staring up at the great statues with round eyes and comically gaping mouths.

"Yes," Aragorn replied, steeling his shoulders. Thorin frowned. Did the leader doubt his decision?

"We must leave the river before the current sweeps us past Tol Brandir and over those falls," Legolas said.

"The left bank is too sparsely covered, and enemies have dogged our steps these last few nights," said Aragorn. "Make for the Western bank. We will camp there tonight."

Boromir looked extremely pleased with this decision, and with a sinking heart Thorin remembered that his city lay to the west of the river, not the east. He would depart the Fellowship soon to be with his people.

"The Fellowship will miss such a doughty warrior," he murmured.

"Do we carry the boats?" Legolas asked as the roar of Rauros grew louder.

"That would not be easy, even if we were all Men," said Boromir.

"Yet such as we are, we will try it," said Aragorn.

"Aye, we will," said Gimli. "The legs of Men will lag on a rough road while a Dwarf goes on, be the burden twice his own weight, Master Boromir!"

"Thorin," came a new voice, and he turned to see his grandfather standing uneasily in the prow of the boat. "Come now, that's long enough."

He gave Gimli a regretful look. "I leave now, my star," he said, swallowing his pride and his resentment. "I will be back with you tomorrow."

"He leaves?" Gimli sat up straight, and as a result the arc of water that came curving out of the air splashed against his broad chest and not his head. His pipe fizzled as it was drenched, and Gimli looked down at it and then at the giggling Elf with a glower that spoke eloquently of axes.

"You will regret that, my friend," he said slowly and clearly, his teeth showing white between his moustache and beard.

"But I will enjoy it in the meanwhile," Legolas retorted, and he lifted his voice and began to sing merrily.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Tolo na – come near
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Kulhu ma sakhizu ya izzûghizu, ma mahtadadizu ya 'agulhizu - What you don't see with your eyes, don't invent with your mouth.  
> Ukratel - Glory of all glories  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Shamukh – Hail!  
> Zabad - lord  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother  
> Gimli – star  
> Shazara – silence
> 
> Aragorn did indeed serve the armies of both Gondor and Rohan under assumed names when he was a younger man. His love for his city and people dates from that time. He kept himself away, devoting himself to the ancient Northern realm of Arnor where his ancestors had also ruled.
> 
> Elbereth is the name the Elves give to Varda, Vala of the Stars and Queen of Aman.
> 
> The backstory for Zhori has been heavily influenced by the musings of the actors from the movie, who postulated that Dori, Nori and Ori all had different fathers and were all rather distant in age. Ymrís was the concubine of the King Óin I, of the Grey Mountains (TA 2238 - 2488).
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the chapter, "The Great River".
> 
> _Thank you all SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH for your wonderful comments and lovely kudos (it's like getting a little high-five, I freaking love that kudos thing!) and generally for all your support and amazingness. YOU ARE ALL SO MAGNIFICENT HOW DO YOU COPE WITH BEING SO INCREDIBLE 24/7._


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The spectacular[jeza-red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com) has drawn [Mizim!!!!!](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/60900842758/in-determamfidds-sansukh-bomfris-daughter-of) YOU NEED TO SEE THE FAMOUS DWARVEN BEAUTY WHO MARRIED GLÓIN. I am thoroughly in awe of Jeza's talent - really, I am green as grass. See this face? It is a jealous face. _
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _AND! The superlative[notanightlight](notanightlight.tumblr.com) has drawn another gorgeous and [funny comic!](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/60905913900/hobbity-big-sad-eyes-effect-go) It is based around the 'Hobbity Big Sad Eyes' effect that always has Ori so distressed! It is **freakin adorable**_.
> 
>  _BUT THERE'S MORE! The splendiferous[flukeoffate](flukeoffate.tumblr.com) has created a phenomenal multimedia _ (READ IT AGAIN: MULTIMEDIA) _[illustration of Chapter Eighteen!](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/60977895854/sansukh-ch-18-illustration-by-yorikosakakibara)Boats! Stars! Rivers! Grumpy Thorin! Cheeky Gimli! Sassy Legolas! ~~flirting like WHOA~~_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**   
>  _Bomfrís daughter of Alrís_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Bomfrís is the eighth child of Bombur and Alrís (the entire list, in order, is: Barís Crystaltongue, Barum, Barur Stonebelly, Bomfur, Bolrur, Bofrur, Alfur, Bomfrís, Alrur, Alfrís, Bibur and Albur) and the middle daughter of three. Her hair is the light ginger of her father, but she resembles her mother otherwise, with her large brown eyes and merry smile. Growing up she was often solitary by choice, as she felt ignored and swamped by her horde of siblings, and eclipsed by the musical talent of her famous eldest sister Barís and cooking abilities of her older brother Barur. She grew to enjoy her solitude and freedom, and often roamed beyond Erebor to be beneath the sky. She loves birds, and is one of the Dwarrows who tends to the ravens that are loyal to the Mountain. She first took up the bow, an unpopular weapon amongst Dwarves, when she was small and saw the noted knife-thrower and archer Mizim daughter of Ilga (mother of Gimrís and Gimli Elf-Friend, wife of Glóin) bringing down a great horned owl that threatened the ravens' nests. She then begged Mizim to teach her. Her skill was not at first apparent, but she worked hard until she improved. Eventually she outstripped her mentor to become the finest shot in Erebor, and leader of the small group of archers in the Ereborean army. Blunt, often abrasive, prickly and fiery, Bomfrís is often quick to take offense. However, she is loyal and unwavering in all her loves and convictions, and is also likely to be the first one to come to the defence of others.
> 
> * * *

Thorin awoke the next morning to a knock upon his door. He stretched, and to his mild surprise his body moved easily and without the lingering dull weight of exhaustion. In fact, he felt far better than he had for weeks. Perhaps there was something to his family's insistence he sleep more than three hours per night.

"Come in."

"Thorin?" It was Fíli, sticking his head around the door. "Everyone's assembling in the Chamber in half an hour. Erebor and Fellowship details this morning."

"Ah." Thorin brushed the hair that had come loose in the night back over the crown of his head, and then sat up. "And are you scheduled, namadul?"

"Yes, at Erebor," Fíli said. His nephew looked quite excited. "Kíli's green as emeralds: he's not scheduled until tomorrow."

Thorin smiled and swung his legs off his pallet, scratching idly at his stomach. "He'll survive, I'm sure."

"Interesting choice of words," said Fíli dryly.

"Hah." Thorin took up a tunic and pulled it over the sleep-pants he wore, before turning back to Fíli. "Do you look forward to seeing your mother, then?"

"Dad's going with me." Fíli leaned against the door-jamb. "Your hair looks a mess. Do you even own a comb?"

" _Some_ of us do not care for fanciful and impractical braids, my  unday," Thorin said haughtily. Fíli grinned.

"Sure, that's the reason. Well, I'll see you down at breakfast."

"Thank you, Fíli."

Fíli's grin broadened and he nodded, before he softly closed the door behind him.

Turning to his polished brass mirror (it had primroses and honeysuckle embossed around the edges, a piece of work that Thorin was rather proud of) he had to concede that perhaps Fíli had a point. His hair was nearly as mad as Bifur's. Picking up his comb, he sighed and began to attack the whole thick, unruly mass of it, cursing loudly when it snagged.

Most of his family were at the table when Thorin arrived, though Kíli was not present and neither was Thráin. Fíli lifted an amused eyebrow at Thorin's neat queue. "I see you managed to wrestle it into submission."

Thorin growled, and tousled Fíli's golden hair in revenge. Fíli beat him off with a noise of outrage, and Frerin choked out a laugh around a mouthful of broth.

"You look better today," Hrera said approvingly. "Good. Eat."

Thorin debated saying something, but in the end decided against it and held his tongue. His tyrannical grandmother would only find another way to say 'I told you so'. He took his seat and ignored the eager stares and the whispers that rose from every other Dwarrow in the Hall. "Where is Kíli?"

"Sleeping in," snorted Fíli. "He said that since he's not needed this morning, he's going to stay in bed as long as possible. I think he's trying to find out if it's possible for Dwarrows to hibernate."

Thorin grunted, and then he looked up at his mother. "Adad?"

"Oh, Mahal only knows," she said, shaking her head. "He tore from our quarters this morning. I think he has finally figured out how to fix the greaves he has been moaning about for the last fortnight."

It was with a jolt of surprise that Thorin realised he hadn't even known that his father was smithing a new suit of armour. He truly had been neglecting them. "Would he welcome another set of eyes?"

"Are you kidding?" Frerin said. "He brought them to _Narvi_ to look at them."

Thorin's breath caught, and he coughed for a moment. "Narvi?" he said incredulously when he was able to speak. "And what did she say?"

"Not to waste her time," said Thráin's voice behind him, and his father sat heavily in his seat and scowled at his empty bowl. "Damned haughty craftsman. Just because she worked with Khelebrimbur..."

  
  
Thráin and Narvi, by [christmashippo](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/86993395848/ive-seriously-had-this-in-my-folder-for-almost-a)  


"Now, now, let it pass, we've all heard it a hundred times or more," said Hrera, and she filled her son's bowl and then tapped his tattooed brow with a forefinger. "Stop glowering, my thundercloud. We begin our schedule today!"

"Aye," Thráin muttered, and he began to eat as though his broth had personally offended him.

"...don't understand _why_ it has t' be _my_ nephew that goes an' befriends bloody tree-shaggers!" came the sound of Óin's voice from somewhere to his right, and Thorin glanced over to see Haban supporting her son, a long-suffering look on her face. Óin weaved a little as he moaned, his balance shifting on his seat, and he was blubbering into a tankard. Gróin was face-down upon their table and snoring, and the unmistakable shape of Balin's curled shoes were protruding from underneath the other bench.

Fundin was seated across from them, nodding emphatically, his eyes unfocused. "Damn shame," he kept slurring. "Damn shame, s'what it is. A damn shame."

"Oh, yes, and there's that," sighed Frís. "Quite a few Dwarrows have been trying to cheer up your cousin. It hasn't produced the desired result, but by stone and steel they've certainly wasted a lot of ale in the attempt."

"Why did he _do_ that?" Óin moaned, and he leaned even more heavily against his entirely unimpressed mother. She was holding a flask of water in her hand, and her face clearly showed that she was considering dumping it on his head rather than getting him to drink it. "He knows. Better! Taught him better than this. An'. An'. An' he goes an' tells all our secrets to a bloody Elf. Bloody Sonduil's Thran! He's been taught better. This is what comes of droppin' babbies on their heads. They make nicey-nicey with bloody Elves. Secrets. Y'know?"

"Damn shame," said Fundin owlishly.

Óin smacked the table with an open palm and then roared, "Well, an' why shouldn't he? Huh? Tell me that! He's a grown Dwarrow. So what if it's been tradition fer... fer, uh... fer a very-very-very long time. Could be good. Could be all part of a plan, aye? Make the weed-eaters think better of us. Make 'em treat us with _respect."_

"Damn," Fundin hiccupped loudly, and belatedly covered his mouth. "S'a damn shame."

"Gimli, Gimli," Óin groaned, and he rubbed his hands over his face. "Oh, my nephew, my wee badger, my fine azaghîth. What've you done? What've you done? Pray Mahal he knows what he is doin'. He could be the saving or the ruin of us – and damned if I know which it will be!"

"Damned shame."

"Aye," Óin said, and he sighed mournfully, before his eyes rolled up into his head. Slowly, ponderously, like a tree being felled, he slid backwards off his bench with a crash and began to snore loudly in the next breath.

"Thank Mahal for that," muttered Hrera. "Utterly disgraceful."

Frerin had covered his eyes and was gasping for air, and Fíli was snickering. Thorin hid a smile, and shared a look with his father.

"Perhaps my grandson has the right idea," Thráin said wearily. "I should have stayed in bed."

"Actually, Kíli will be disappointed he missed such a display," Thorin murmured.

"He'll be gutted," Fíli chuckled. "Ammunition for _centuries."_

"Óin is your cousin. Don't mock him," Frís said, giving their table a stern look. "He's unhappy, and he has a right to be. His method of dealing with his unhappiness may not be the wisest, but it is preferable to others I might name."

Thorin's eyes snapped back to his soup, and he scowled.

Frerin scooted closer to him and nudged his side with his elbow. "Cheer up, nadad, I'm with you today."

"They camp at the foot of Amon Hen," sighed Thorin, his mind flitting back to the Fellowship. He glanced up at his mother. "Who else is with us?"

"Bifur and Nori," she said. "And at Erebor your grandfather and your nephew are joined by Víli and Ori."

"Hmm." Thorin refocused on his food, wondering when he would be able to visit Bilbo again. A sharp pang raced through his heart, and he swallowed his broth with some difficulty. At his side, Frerin was watching him with worry in his eyes.

"I'm fine," he murmured.

"Oh Thorin, my brother. You're such a bad liar," Frerin said gently, and then he turned back to his own meal.

The others were waiting for them at the Chamber of Sansûkhul when Thorin, Thrór, Fíli and Frerin made their way through the mithril, diamond and pearl-studded gates. Thorin nodded to Bifur and Nori. "Baknd ghelekh," he greeted them, and Bifur grinned.

"I'm to stay with you, zabadel," he said cheerfully.

"I'll be comin' and goin'," said Nori. "Bifur's going to be our stationary watcher, and I'll be roving."

"Somehow this comes as a great surprise," said Fíli dryly. He glanced to Thorin as Thrór led the Erebor team away, and Thorin gave his nephew a smile in return.

"Well, let's get going!" exclaimed Bifur. "I want to see the wee melekûnh again."

"You're as bad as Ori," muttered Nori, and Thorin gave them a quelling look.

"Enough. We leave."

They took their places around the dark glasslike sheet that was the waters of Gimlîn-zâram, and Thorin stared and stared at the surface until the stars winked and swirled and came to take him away from the grey world of the Halls to the living light of Middle-Earth.

He blinked the starlight away and was greeted by the eaves of trees and the sound of singing. Turning, he spotted Aragorn humming under his breath as he skinned a rabbit with practised ease. Some few paces beyond, Gimli was lighting a small fire and Sam was unloading his pans and frowning over his little corked bottles of salts and spices.

"Wouldn't use these on a dog's dinner back at home," he muttered to himself. "They've gone a bit stale. I can hardly smell the rosemary any more."

"Never mind, Sam," said Pippin comfortingly. "I've seen rosemary about here and there. You'll pick up more."

Sam frowned, and then his eyes flickered to where Frodo sat bundled in his blanket, his eyes gazing thoughtfully into Gimli's merry fire. "Now, I don't know about that," he said slowly. "Seems to me there's going to be a lot less of everything from now on, since we're turning east an' all."

Frodo's eyes tightened, and he shifted in his blanket.

Thorin jerked his head to Nori, who nodded and began to circle the area, his eyes darting here and there. Bifur leaned himself up against a tree and settled down, and Thorin crouched down before the Ringbearer and studied his face. Frodo looked frightened, but also torn, as though he was trying to make some terrible, dreadful decision.

Behind him, Frerin hovered. "Is there something wrong with the Hobbit?"

"He hovers on the brink of something," Thorin murmured. "Something vast and awful."

"Poor little fellow."

Thorin stood. "You do not know Hobbits, and so you do not know how wrong you are. Hobbits are strong and true as steel. He will not falter."

Frerin wrinkled his nose. "If you say so."

Nori returned, satisfied. "The Elf is gathering firewood, though he does not break any branches and only takes those that are fallen already," he said, smirking. "And Boromir has made his way further up the hill to see if he can spy his city from the old watchtower."

"Ah. No sign of orcs or the servants of Saruman?"

"Nah, nuffin'."

"Good." Thorin turned to Gimli, who trudged over to the bank and pulled off his boots, dipping his feet into the shallow waters of the river. His short, broad arches were pale as milk, hidden from sunlight for so long. "Ach, that's better," Gimli groaned. "Dragging boats all over the wild is not my idea of a fine time."

"Abbad, nidoyel. Zûr zu?" he said, and Gimli's head lifted a few inches. Then he smiled broadly.

"I'm well enough, my lord. We have come over the portage way, and now we wait for Aragorn's decision: to turn to the south, or make for the east."

"Ugh, portage," said Frerin.

Boromir came back, his face troubled. "The view is as the legends tell it," he said, and his brow creased. "The darkness that surrounds my city grows ever blacker. I must go home, and soon. Every Captain of Gondor is needed, every sword and spear."

"Stay with us at least one night more, laddie," Gimli said. "For we would have our Fellowship while we may, aye?"

Boromir sighed and sat upon a mossy log. His hands fidgeted idly over the great horn he wore at his belt.

"We will stay here this night," said Aragorn, sitting back against a tree and laying his knife down. He looked out over the overgrown thickets, his eyes distant. "This was once the lawn of Parth Galen, a fair place in summers of old. We may yet hope that no evil will dare set foot here."

"Quite a long hope, if you ask me," Gimli said beneath his breath.

"No sign of our sneak?" said Sam, looking up as Aragorn passed him the skinned rabbit, and Aragorn shook his head.

"No, no sign. I had hoped to lose him on the river, but he is too clever a waterman. I have heard him several times."

Frodo shivered and drew his blanket closer.

Legolas returned, his arms full of dry branches, and he laid them down by the little blaze. Sam tutted and moved the bundles away by some distance before setting out all his cooking things. Watching him, Thorin was struck by the memory of Bilbo fussing over a campfire with Bofur and Bombur, his hands on his hips, scolding them soundly for 'ash in the soup and goodness only knows what else! If you can't be tidy, be elsewhere, please and thank you!' He smiled to himself.

"No sign of orcs, nor of Uruk-Hai," said Legolas after a pause. "But the trees move nervously, and they whisper to each other. I do not like this silence."

"Let us see what Sting may show," said Aragorn, turning to Frodo.

Frodo drew the little blade that had saved Thorin's life all those years ago, and to his dismay the edges gleamed dimly. "Not very near, and yet too near, it seems," Frodo said.

Aragorn ran a hand through his ragged hair, his sigh heavy. "The day is here at last: the day of choice which we have long delayed. Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor? Or do we turn east to the Shadow? Or do we break our Fellowship and go our separate ways? Whatever we do, it must be done soon. We cannot halt here for long."

There was a long silence in which no-one spoke or moved.

"Well, Frodo?" said Aragorn gently. "I fear the burden is laid upon you. Only your own way can you choose. I wish I could advise you, but I am not Gandalf, though I have tried to bear his part. Whatever your choice may be, we will abide by it."

Frodo remained silent for another long moment, and then he looked up. "I know I must choose quickly," he said slowly. "Yet I cannot choose. Give me an hour longer to decide. I will walk and think, and then I will speak."

"Very well," Aragorn said, looking at him kindly. "You will have an hour, and you shall be alone. We will stay here a while longer. But do not stray out of earshot!"

Frodo nodded, wordless, but did not move at once. Sam watched him as closely as a hawk for a moment, and he frowned sadly. "Plain as a pikestaff it is, but it's no good Sam Gamgee speaking up just now."

Frodo stood, and his eyes were fixed on some far-distant point as he walked away. Thorin watched him go with a sinking heart, and then he nodded to Nori. Nori nodded back, and slunk after him.

"Now we wait," sighed Aragorn.

Gimli dried his feet in the grass and pulled his heavy steel-bound boots back on, before slumping back against his pack. "I wonder which he will choose," he mused. "I do not envy him. Such a choice is weighty enough without the burden that accompanies it."

"He is debating which course is the most desperate, I think," said Aragorn heavily. "For they are all desperate, make no mistake. If we should go to Minas Tirith, there we could make a valiant stand. But the city is no closer to Mount Doom and the destruction of the burden than we are here, and how should we keep it there, secret and safe, when such a thing is beyond even Lord Elrond? And east: no. Since we are tracked by Gollum I think it safe to say that our journey is already betrayed."

"Now indeed we miss Gandalf most," said Gimli.

"Yes," said Legolas, and he tipped back his fair head and closed his eyes in sorrow. "Yes, we miss Gandalf all the more."

"Well, whatever he chooses, I shall follow him," said Gimli with a sharp nod of his head. "I have come so far, and I say this: now we have reached the last choice, it is clear that I cannot leave Frodo."

"And I too will go with him," said Legolas. "It would be faithless now to say farewell."

Gimli sent him a quirked smile. "Aye, it would."

"Well, Pippin and I have always intended to go wherever he went, and we still do," said Merry staunchly.

"The dear silly old Hobbit, he ought to know that he hasn't got to ask," Pippin added.

"Begging your pardon," said Sam. "I don't think it's that at all. He isn't hesitating about which way to go. Of course not! What's the good of Minas Tirith? To him, I mean, begging your pardon, Master Boromir." He turned to where Boromir had been, but the place was empty.

"Now that's odd," said Merry, frowning. "Where's he got to now?"

"He's been acting a mite strange lately, to my mind," Sam muttered, before he shook himself. "At any rate, he's off home after this, and no blame to him at all. But Mr. Frodo knows he's got to find these Cracks of Doom, if he can. But he's _afraid to start._ "

"Thorin!" came a shout, and Nori came tearing out of the bushes, his eyes wild. "Thorin, come quickly! Boromir's gone an' turned into a nutter! I think the Ring's got him!"

"What!" Thorin stood, all his peace shattered.

Gimli sat up, a curse dropping from his lips.

"What is it, Gimli?" said Pippin curiously.

Legolas' eyebrows were high, but he did not betray any other sign that he knew what Gimli heard. "Do you hear something?" he said, his gaze pinning the Dwarrow to the spot.

"Aye," Gimli said, breathless. "Something."

"This will be the first time a Dwarf has heard what a Ranger cannot," Aragorn said mildly. "What is it, Gimli?"

"Not all," Nori panted. "That's not all. There's... orcs below the hill. Big ones."

"But it's daylight!" cried Bifur.

"Uruk-Hai," said Thorin grimly. "Gandalf warned us. Saruman's army."

"Orcs," said Gimli, and he met Legolas' eyes. "There are Orcs coming. Uruk-Hai."

"Nori, we find Frodo," Thorin snapped. "I leave the orcs to you, my star!" Then he turned back to Nori. "Now. Run!"

Nori sprang back to his feet and began to charge through the trees, weaving between the trunks. Thorin's boots pounded after him, and he could hear the harsh breathing of Bifur and Frerin behind him. "Just ahead!" Nori managed, and Thorin burst into the clearing to see the Man advancing upon the Hobbit.

"I ask only for the strength to defend my people," Boromir spat bitterly, and oh, the pain on his face. Thorin felt his heart constrict at that pain. He knew it so well, oh so well. "If you would but lend me the ring..."

"No!" Frodo said firmly, backing away. His feet shuffled nervously through the long grass, and his hand was on Sting.

"Why do you recoil?" said Boromir, taken aback. "I am no thief."

"You are not yourself," Frodo said, and he circled around warily, his gaze flitting across a gap in the trees.

Suddenly Boromir's pleasant, strong face was twisted by fury. "What chance do you think you have? They will find you, they will take the ring and you will beg for death before the end!"

Frodo stood still and stiff for a moment, his face pinched. Then he turned away to leave.

"Fool!" Boromir snarled, his eyes lighting with some hot cruel insanity. "It is not yours save by unhappy chance... it might have been mine. It _should_ be mine. Give it to me!" And he leapt at the Hobbit and his greater weight pinned Frodo to the forest floor. His hands, strong and sure, that had defended them so many times, now scrabbled with curled fingers at Frodo's neck like claws.

"Give me the Ring," he hissed.

"No!" Frodo cried, and he kicked and fought like a wild thing.

"I cannot watch this," Thorin said through numb lips. Had he been thus, lost to madness and rage and despair? His hands, too, had closed around the neck of a Hobbit. "I cannot. I _cannot_."

"Where is Gimli?" said Bifur desperately, searching the clearing. "Did he not follow?"

"I.. I did not tell him to," said Thorin, and he lowered his head into his hands.

"No!" Frodo yelled, and then he vanished. Frerin bit off a shout of surprise and horror, his head turning this way and that.

"Where'd he go? Where'd he go?"

"The Ring," said Thorin through a throat as dry as a desert. "He has put it on."

"I see your mind!" Boromir bellowed into the air, his head swinging, his eyes aflame. "You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us! You go to your death, and the death of us all!"

"He is a great Man, and a good one," Thorin said. His mouth was parched, and his eyes ached. "He is not this. He is _not."_

"Curse you! Curse all the Halflings!" Boromir hollered, and then he caught his foot on a stone and fell sprawling upon his face. For a while he lay as still as if his own curse had struck him down, and then his head lifted. His breath came shuddering through his lips, and his eyes were filled with tears.

"Frodo," he croaked, and his face was his own again. "What have I _done...!_ Frodo, I'm sorry – a madness took me, but it has passed. Come back! Frodo, please..."

Thorin had to reach out to grasp Frerin's shoulder because his legs would no longer bear him. Boromir's voice was too familiar, horribly familiar. He knew that crippling guilt. He knew the taste of shame, dripping like lead from his mouth.

His brother's fingers suddenly dug painfully into the back of his hand, and he was spun to look into Frerin's angry blue eyes.

"If you are about to think in _any way_ that what happened to you was your fault, any more than what happened to this Man was _his_ fault, I will strike you so hard you will think you're swimming in  Gimlîn-zâram for eternity," he growled. "You didn't ask to be sick, Thorin. He didn't ask to be sick either. _Nobody asks to be sick._ It wasn't your fault. Now get it together, nadadel."

With a shudder, Thorin nodded silently, and tried to block out the sound of Boromir's anguished cries for Frodo and forgiveness.

"Where has he gone?" said Bifur, his voice soft and filled with shock.

"I cannot say," Thorin said after a pause in which he collected himself as best he could. "We must find him. The Ring renders him invisible, but his shadow may be spied in full sunlight. Nori?"

Nori did not answer, but sped away in the direction of the waving grasses that covered the slopes of Amon Hen.

"Where now?" asked Bifur. He was gripping his beard tightly between his hands.

"Thorin!" Frerin said suddenly, panic ringing in his voice. "I hear blades over here! There are swords drawn!"

Thorin took a breath, and then another. Then he nodded sharply, and Frerin led the way back in the direction from which they had come.

"This is chaos," he growled, and shook his head to clear his stinging eyes. "This is madness. The Fellowship..."

"There! Sakhab!" Bifur shouted, and they veered to enter into a whirlwind of battle.

Gimli and Legolas were standing back to back, and Legolas' bow sang as Gimli's axe covered the sides. The orcs that faced them were tall and broad, with great heavy arms and snarling faces. They were far greater than any goblin-scum Thorin had ever seen, and he recoiled from the sight. Each was near the size of Azog himself, though they were dark where Azog was white. "Mahal save us," he breathed, his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs.

"Mahal save _them!"_ Frerin said, high and panicked, as a black arrow came perilously close to Gimli's leg only to be deflected by his spinning blade. "There must be forty or more!"

"The Hobbits," Thorin said, his eyes darting amidst the anarchy. "Where are the Hobbits?"

"No sign," Bifur said, and he pulled at his beard again. "And the Man is gone as well!"

"Perhaps Aragorn protects them," Frerin said, a forlorn hope flickering in his eyes.

"We can but pray it is so," said Thorin grimly, watching as Legolas dispatched yet another of the great orcs. "Ah! To your right, Gimli! A crossbow!"

Without breaking the smooth, whirling path of his spinning axe, Gimli drew Fíli's throwing axe from his belt and sent it in a smooth overhand throw to land in the skull of the crossbowman. Frerin squeaked and clapped his hand over his mouth. "This isn't exactly how I wanted to see him fight," he said weakly.

"Impressive though it is," Thorin agreed. "They will overcome here. I trust in Gimli's skills. We must find the Hobbits!"

"How? They're impossible to find when they don't want to be spotted, I remember that much!" Bifur said.

"Pippin will show himself," said Thorin after a moment. "He is more impulsive. Then Merry will emerge, for he will not stand idly by while his friends put themselves in danger."

"Where in Durin's name is _Aragorn?!"_ Frerin said to himself in frustration, before he turned and sprinted away through the trees, his eyes peering through the branches.

Thorin fell behind somewhat – his younger brother was far smaller and lighter, and therefore more manouverable than he – and spotted a foot behind a tree. An unmistakable foot, large and topped with curly hair: a Hobbit's foot. "Frerin!" he roared as he slowed. "I have found one!"

"So have I!" Frerin's voice hollered back, unseen. "Two of them!"

"It's Sam," said Bifur, coming up behind Thorin and puffing. "Listen! He's muttering to himself."

Thorin bent to hear.

"Use your head, Sam Gamgee," Sam was saying, knocking his hands against his head and frowning mightily. "Your legs are too short, so use your head! Let me see now. Boromir went and followed Mister Frodo, that's certain. And now Mister Frodo has vanished, and not vanished in any ordinary way. Something scared him badly. He's worked himself up to the decision, all sudden-like. He's made up his mind at last – to go. Where to? Off East. Not without Sam? Yes, without even his Sam. That's hard, cruel hard!"

"Oh, brave gentle little thing," said Bifur, and Thorin shook his head, his pulse thundering in his ears.

"He may be a tiller of soil, but this one is not gentle. This one is a lion beneath his soft skin."

Sam passed his hand over his eyes, dashing away the tears. "Steady, Sam," he told himself firmly. "Think, if you can! He can't fly across rivers, and he can't jump waterfalls. He's got no gear. So he's got to get back to the boats. Back to the boats! Now, back to the boats like lightning!"

The gardener turned and bolted back down the hill, the pans on his back rattling alarmingly. Thorin held his breath, hoping against all hope that the sound brought no more of the great black orcs to investigate. To his relief, none appeared.

"Bifur, follow him," he said curtly. "See that he and Frodo do not come to harm."

Bifur nodded and ran off behind the fleeing Hobbit. Alone, Thorin pressed grimly on.

* * *

Fíli blinked. Erebor was so different to how he remembered it in life that even after eighty years he still sometimes marvelled at the change. Gone was the destruction and the squalor, the rotting fabrics and the crumbling stone, grand even in its ruin. Instead the halls and corridors gleamed and new tapestries (courtesy of Dori's hard efforts as head of the Guild of Weavers) covered the walls. Carvings swooped over the high vaulted roofs and clustered over the columns, their patterns beautiful and intricate, studded with jewels and precious metals.

And in the centre of all this splendour sat Dáin, looking old and tired.

Members of the court were assembled on the flanking tiers that overlooked the vast throne room's cavern with its criss-crossing catwalks. Many looked sour and angry, but there were faces Fíli recognised amongst them who did not look quite so resentful. Gimrís stood, her red hair gleaming, beside her mother Mizim, and Bofur hovered over their shoulders. His hat was askew and he looked suspiciously at the crowd, his normally cheery face hard and unsmiling.

Bombur's sedan was placed behind and to the left of the throne, and his children were clustered around it protectively. Alrís was gripping her husband's hand, and their eldest daughter, the famous musician Barís, was dressed in the traditional finery of a master performer, her sleeves and hair sweeping the floor and her eyes shaded by a low circlet of bright aquamarines. They were also threaded through her beard along with tinkling silver bells that rang as she spoke or sang.

[ ](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/65509838233/baris-crystaltongue)

  


_Barís Crystaltongue, by[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/65509838233/baris-crystaltongue)_

Dori was standing with the heads of the Guilds, his High Guildmaster's chain about his shoulders, resplendent in red and with a rather ostentatious jewel clasping the midpoint of his beard. Ori was smiling at him proudly, and Fíli idly thought that that jewel would have disappeared in a matter of seconds, were Nori still around to see his brother so splendid.

Dwalin and Orla flanked the throne as always, looming fierce and broad, clad in their leathers and furs. The only concession Dwalin had made to his illustrious family was the gleam of silver at his ear. Otherwise he was as he ever was. Orla's dusky skin and great black sweep of hair made her eyes glitter white and dangerous from the shadows.

The Queen was absent, as was the Stonehelm.

With a burst of pride that nearly exploded his chest, Fíli's eyes landed on his mother, seated to the right of the throne in the place of the First Advisor. Her grey hair was caught up in a jewelled net, and her back was straight and proud. She leaned over and whispered to Dáin as Víli came up to stand by Fíli.

"Ah, she looks like a mine full o' diamonds, don't she?" he murmured.

"That she does," Fíli answered, his heart in his throat.

Dáin sighed, and then leaned back upon the throne, easing his metal foot out a little and shifting in his seat. "Send them in," he said, and his hearty voice was becoming rather cracked. Fíli glanced over at Thrór, who was regarding his cousin sadly.

"He's not long for this world, is he?" said Ori softly.

"He's done us proud, though," Thrór said, and his voice was harsh and unforgiving. "Done all as he should and more."

Sometimes, Fíli thought, his great-grandfather was filled with even more self-loathing than Thorin himself.

The great doors opened, and the Stonehelm entered. The blocky Dwarrow was at the head of a small procession of Elves, approximately twenty or so, all dressed in soft grey-green. Some had leaves woven into their hair, and Fíli wrinkled his nose. What was the point of dead greenery stuck in your hair? Leaves in a bedroll were itchy enough.

They were not wearing their bows. Normally there were no restrictions upon weapons in the throne room (Dáin rather liked them, in fact, and wanted to know all about them and their makers) but an Elven bow within shot of the King was too much, even for the most liberal of Dwarves.

The Stonehelm halted before the throne, and gave his father a slow, ceremonial bow for the benefit of the traditionalists of the court. He looked up, and Ori nodded approvingly.

"He's wearing the beads and braids of the Crown Prince," he said. "That'll make the older members of the Council happy."

"He doesn't like them?" Fíli had never actually had the chance to wear them.

Thrór grimaced. "They're heavy, and those bloody beads catch and pull at strands of your hair. I hated the damned things."

"Oh."

Dáin stood with some difficulty as his son said, "hail my father, Dáin the second of that name, of the Line of Durin, King of Erebor and the Iron..."

"Yes, yes," Dáin grunted, and he managed to get himself to his feet. "I know who I am, m'lad. You look well."

Thorin Stonehelm hid a smile. "I am, 'adad. Glad to be home."

"Glad you're home too, son." Dáin gave his son a quick grin, before turning to the Elves. The leader looked rather nonplussed at Dáin's sudden lapse in formality. "Welcome, my lords, to Erebor. We thank you with all our hearts for your aid in this dark time, against this the darkest of foes."

"King Dáin," the leading Elf said, stepping forward with a light, quick step and taking a graceful bow. "I am Laerophen, son of Thranduil."

Dís' eyebrows rose, but she did not comment. "We greet you, Laerophen Thranduilion of Eryn Lasgalen," said Dáin formally. Then he rubbed under his crown and added, "and we are bloody pleased to see you, pardon my language."

"Not all of your folk seemed so warmly disposed," said Laerophen, eyeing the tiers of muttering Dwarrows that lined the chamber.

"Aye, well, there are always folk like that," said Dáin. "Am I right in thinking you're the captain of this force?"

"You are." Laerophen inclined his head. "Three hundred strong are we, and all armed with longbow and sword and knives."

The whispering grew louder. "Only three hundred!" Fíli heard one exclaim. "It's barely anything!"

"They're Elves. Did you expect real help?"

"Aye, but an Elven archer is a real asset! Three hundred is a small force, but it may change the tide."

"You're a fool, and a blind fool t'boot. The old pale spider down in Mirkwood only sends us a token to hush us up!"

"He didn't have to send _one_ , let alone three hundred!"

"We're grateful," said Dáin firmly, his voice carrying over the whispers. He stepped down from his throne and held his hand up to Laerophen, who regarded it warily. "Come now! If we are to work together, we must be better than our forebears. I'm but one old Dwarf, surely you can't be afeared of me?"

With cautious movements, Laerophen clasped the King's hand. "As you say, we are to work together."

The Elves behind the captain were wide-eyed and many of them appeared to be either disgusted or horrified.

"Now!" Dáin let Laerophen's hand go and clapped his own hands together. "Let me tell you what we know. Three times this messenger has given us his warnings. The next time we see him, it will be at the head of an army. We will bow to no dark power. Thorin, m'boy, come here, let me lean on you. My leg's playing up again, and I want to walk."

The Stonehelm came to help his father as Dáin began to pace, his foot clicking against the dark polished rock floors. Dáin put his hand on his son's shoulder and made a clucking noise between his teeth. "The Ravens tell us that darkness gathers in the north. From Mount Gundabad all manner of foul things are swarming south, and only Erebor stands in its way. They are not far off, though we cannot say when they will hit. Our best estimate is within the month, though it could be as little as two weeks."

"It is graver than you know," said Laerophen, his blue eyes cool and piercing. "Our forests are once more threatened from the south. From the burned-out fortress of Dol Guldur comes a dark and chilling reek, the likes of which we have not felt since Mithrandir felled it long ago. The spiders grow in numbers once more, and the trees huddle together and the wind speaks of their anger. Messages fly from Imladris and Lothlórien: the Shadow is growing stronger."

"Ach, this is evil news!" Dáin cried. "Then we are not the only land besieged?"

Laerophen shook his pale head. "No, indeed. The terror of Mordor begins to creep into all lands, and nowhere is there a place that is safe."

Dáin pulled at his beard in thought, his distress still upon his face. "We sent to Elrond of Rivendell for advice and counsel," he muttered. "We heard none of this. We are not privy to the plans of the Elves."

"Are you not?" Laerophen seemed surprised. "Then I have more news to give, though you may choose whether to find it dark or fair. Lord Elrond convened a council of all free peoples, and at that place a Fellowship of nine walkers was formed. They now guard Isildur's bane and have sworn themselves to the service of the bearer."

"Isildur's..." Thorin Stonehelm said, his eyes wide.

"You told my father that this messenger required news of the Perian, the Hobbit known to you in the years of the dragon."

"Yes?" The Stonehelm seemed confused. "Yes, I mentioned that. The enemy wants a little ring, the least of rings. But you don't mean to say..."

Laerophen nodded once, his graceful neck arching. "Did you not know what your fourteenth companion had picked up in the deeps of the Misty Mountains?"

The tiers of Dwarrows began to whisper and murmur, their faces paling sharply and their eyes wide and shocked. Over the rising din, Bofur let out a great choked sob of horror, and Gimrís was forced to hold up her husband as his knees quavered. "Our Bilbo? Wee Bilbo Baggins?" he breathed, his face white as chalk beneath his hat.

Bombur was moaning into his palms. "That little thing, that little gold ring 'e used," he wheezed. Barís and Alrís clapped him gently on his back as he struggled for breath.

"Breathe easy, dad," Barís soothed him. "Do you need your medicine?"

"I need to know what that Elf means!" Bombur snarled, and he pushed himself half out of his seat. His bad leg trembled beneath his great weight, and Alrís swore and braced him even as his sons moved to support him as well. "Speak plainly! Do you mean that the ring of legend, named Isildur's Bane in the old rhyme..."

  
  
Alrís, by [aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/106916790288/alris-daughter-of-geris-another-lovely-dwarrowdam)  


"Came to the hand of Bilbo Baggins, yes." Laerophen gave a thin smile. "And he used it to spirit you from our fortress and to sneak under a dragon's nose."

"And now a council of free peoples moves to protect the Ringbearer," said Dáin. His hand had clamped down tightly on his son's thick shoulder in his shock, and his face had turned quite grey. "Who amongst our people walks with Bilbo Baggins?"

"It is not he who now bears the thing," Laerophen said. "It has passed to a kinsman of his, and they travel on a quest of great urgency and secrecy. The Lady Galadriel will say no more, and nor will Lord Elrond, lest it jeopardise their safety and success."

"Who went with them?" said Mizim in a dreadful voice, standing forward suddenly. _"Who."_

"Mum, it wasn't-" Gimrís gasped, and suddenly it was Bofur's turn to support her.

"My younger brother, Legolas," said Laerophen. "Two of the race of Men. Four Hobbits. Gandalf the Grey."

"The Wizard!" came the murmur from the tiers – most approving, though a few with some suspicion. Mizim stared the Elf down with her dark eyes.

"That is eight," she said in a voice of ice.

"I hear tell that the Dwarf who accompanied them is named Gimri, son of Glóin."

Gimrís gasped audibly, Dís clapped a hand over her mouth and Bofur sank back in dismay. Mizim swayed on the spot as though struck.

"Gim _li,_ " she rasped, and her eyes closed tightly as her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "If you are going to tell me such news of _my son,_ you'd damned better get his name right!"

Laerophen's elegant face was expressionless and smooth, but his eyes softened. "My apologies, Lady. I will not forget."

"Mum!" Gimrís cried, reaching for Mizim. The older Dwarrowdam groped blindly for her daughter, and when she had grasped her she held onto her with all her strength. "Mum, shh. It's all right, shh. Gimli's going to be fine. He's far, far too annoying to get hurt, you'll see. He'll be here, he'll be fine. He'll be laughing and leaving his boots in the middle of the corridor and singing those songs of his day and night, driving you mad. Shhh. It's all right." Gimrís seemed to be trying to convince not only her mother, but herself as well. Her lovely face was blotched, the high colour evidence of tears that were ruthlessly held in check.

"My son," Mizim gasped, and she buried her face in her daughter's shoulder and shook.

"Oh no," said Víli softly. Fíli tore his eyes away from mother and daughter to see his own mother slowly rising from her seat at the dais, her eyes full of fear.

"We cannot thank you for this news," said Dís, her throat convulsing as she swallowed hard. "Gimli is dear to many here, and it is a hard thing to hear that he may be rushing into the very heart of this evil."

"I understand, First Advisor." The Elf bowed, and his luminous Elven eyes slid shut. "I take no umbrage against the promptings of grief. My younger brother is similarly engaged."

"Aye, you mentioned earlier, and so he is. The Lady meant no offense," said Dáin, and he carefully took hold of Dís' hand. "It is a shock to hear this, and not the best place either. Dís, cousin. Are you all right?"

She pressed her lips together, and then she shook her head. "I have lost too much, Dáin," she muttered to him. "I cannot do it again. I cannot. I _cannot."_

Fíli sent a helpless look over to where Thrór stood, his hands fisting in his great thick mane. "Dís," Thrór crooned beneath his breath, gazing upon the face of his only surviving descendant with guilt and sorrow. "Our little sparrow she was, with her sweet little voice and her dark hair."

Víli's smiles were gone and he was wringing his hands together, his face creased in worry and pain. "Oh, my lovely," he whispered gently. "Oh, my Dís, my darling, my steely sweetheart, my lark. It's all right: he's all right. You won't lose another, I promise!"

"Don't," said Fíli hoarsely. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

His father looked at him helplessly for a moment, and then his merry young face crumpled and he turned away.

"Gimli will do well," said Dáin, and he lowered his head and took a deep breath. "We will consider our kinsman later. Fear and worry can wait to be taken up again when there is time and privacy. For now, there is work. What is needed? You are quartered to your liking?"

Laerophen eyed the three Dwarrowdams with trepidation – rightly so, in Fíli's rather spiteful opinion. The bearer of such news to these three should truly fear for their skin. "It is rather darker than we are accustomed to, but it will serve," he said, and Ori rolled his eyes.

"You live in caves too," he snapped. "And at least our caves are bigger!"

Dwalin stepped forward, his tattooed head lifting. "Any general changes y' can think of, now you've had a chance to see the defences?" he said without preamble. The corner of Fíli's mouth twitched, and he shook his head sadly. Dwalin never did have any time for pleasantries. Especially not with Elves.

"The wall-sconces will need to be taller for our archers," Laerophen said, and a flash of distaste passed over his face. Ah, so he recognised Dwalin, then. The warrior's face reddened, his chest puffing up in outrage.

"That can happen," Dáin interrupted before Dwalin could open his mouth and smash any chance of working with the Elves altogether. "What else?"

"We have brought arrows, but more will be needed," the Elf continued, occasionally glancing at Dwalin with dislike.

"Ah, there I have some good news at last," Dáin said, and he squeezed Dís' hand comfortingly. "My wife's in charge of the armoury, and they've been churning out arrows for the last two months. I doubt we're going to run out any time soon."

Laerophen looked astonished – well, as much as any Elf ever looked astonished. "Then you were counting upon our agreement?"

"No," Dáin sighed, and he let Dís go to rub at his grizzled forehead. "Until your arrival we were convinced we stood alone. The arrows could have been used by our own archers, though no doubt not to the same effect."

A spark lit in the Elf's eyes. "You have archers?"

"We do," said Bombur proudly.

"Led by Bomfrís daughter of Alrís," confirmed Dáin. "As our bows are not as powerful, nor as long-ranging as yours, we thought it best perhaps to put our archers at the lowest sconces, and yours at the uppermost?"

Laerophen's brows rose. "Ah. Perhaps. Though it would be more effective to stagger the reaches, as that way you would be able to coordinate several waves of arrows."

"What do you mean?" snapped a new voice, and Bomfrís herself came storming out from amongst her many siblings. "We could coordinate waves from separate areas without mixing together. All you'd need is a loud fellow or two upon the walls. There'd be no need to _mingle!_ "

Dáin gave her an exasperated look, and then gestured his hand at her in frustration. "May I make known the Lady Bomfrís."

She put her hands on her hips and scowled up at the Elf. "I want to know what you mean by coordinating waves," she said.

"It's your fault, you know," muttered Alrís. "Putting adventures in their heads."

"She's more like _you_ than _me,"_ Bombur hissed back. "Don't you give me the blame!"

"If we were to simultaneously release a close volley and a long-range volley," Laerophen said, looking down at the young ginger-haired Dwarrowdam with faint surprise, "we would take out two enemy advances at once."

She hummed a little, her brows drawn together, before peering back up at him. "All right," she said grudgingly. "We'll talk."

" _I'll_ talk," growled Orla. "You'll get back in line, Bomfrís."

She pursed her lips, but subsided.

Dáin shook his head wearily, before he motioned to the rest of his court. "We adjourn. Lord Laerophen, if you would please join us with those of your command you choose in the council rooms after lunch, we can begin a war-plan."

As the others began to move away, Dáin turned back to Dís. "Are you well, cousin?" he said gently, his old voice rasping around the words.

"I will not be well until I see him with my own eyes," she said harshly, and turned to where Gimrís and Mizim still stood in a tight embrace. "I have little else left in this world to keep me but him and his sister. I could not bear losing him."

Gimrís opened her arm from around her mother and said in a softer voice than Fíli had ever heard from her, "Aunt Dís."

She took a shuddering breath, before stepping into the embrace and holding on tightly. Dáin watched them with sad eyes for a moment, before he sighed deeply and squeezed his son's shoulder. "Well, lad. You certainly know how to cause a stir. Welcome home. Now let's go to luncheon."

Thorin was staring after the Elves, his mouth slightly open. "That..." he said weakly.

"Oh, not you too?" Dáin grumbled. "Yes, I know you worry for your cousin. I worry too. But there is an entire mountain-full of Dwarves here and now to worry over, and they all deserve..."

"No, not Gimli. I worry less for him than for anything that is unfortunate enough to cross his path," said the Stonehelm impatiently. "I mean _Bomfrís."_

Dáin blinked. "Bomfrís?"

"Aye," breathed the younger Dwarrow, a wistful look passing over his face. His blocky shoulders heaved as he let out a long breath. "Isn't it a lovely name?"

Dáin looked astounded.

Ori looked between the dreamy-faced Crown Prince and the flabbergasted King, and began to giggle weakly.

"I'm not sure this needs to go in a report," said Fíli in a faint voice.

"Frís'd get a kick out of it, though," Víli added, smiling, though his eyes were still tight with concern. He kept glancing over to where Dís stood, wrapped in the arms of Gimrís and Mizim. Bofur was biting his lip, his hat clutched in his wringing fingers, and the singer Barís hovered anxiously. She had been Gimrís' closest friend since childhood, and now she watched with worried expression as her best friend was comforted and gave comfort.

"Well, they know about the Quest now," said Thrór gloomily as the Stonehelm helped his father from the great vaulted chamber to the small King's antechamber behind the throne (chattering about Bomfrís eagerly the whole time). Thrór, Ori and Fíli followed closely, and Víli stayed behind with Dís.

"They know about the Ring," agreed Fíli, "but not about the plan to destroy it."

"That old rhyme has caused more harm than good," said Ori, frowning. "All anyone needs to do is say 'Isildur's Bane', and all of Arda knows what you are talking about."

"No Dwarf would betray Bilbo Baggins," said Fíli firmly. "It doesn't matter that they know about the Ring. The Enemy will never hear it from us."

"S'pose you're right," Ori mumbled.

"So. Elves in Erebor, huh?"

"Didn't think I'd see that again, to be honest," Thrór said as Dáin and the Stonehelm reached the antechamber door. "Thought it'd take... oh!"

For upon opening the door, four Dwarflings came tumbling out, spilling at Dáin's feet. There was some muffled cursing in a high voice, and then the tall lanky shape of Wee Thorin unfolded himself from the pile and froze, his eyes very wide.

"Your majesty," he quavered.

"Get _off_ me, you great big galoot! You're standing on my braids! How am I supposed t-oh." Gimizh also froze, his hand pressed to his red hair and his mouth open and slack. "Oh _no."_

At that moment the smallest of the interlopers toddled towards the Stonehelm and peered up at him with curious and innocent eyes. Apparently he passed muster, because the little fellow said "up!" in an imperious voice and held out his hands.

"Who...?" said Prince Thorin, turning back to his father as he hefted the little one up into his arms. The child immediately began to investigate the Crown Prince's intricate braids, and tugged on them experimentally. He winced.

"Judging from the look upon the faces of these two, I'd say we're looking at this one's wee younger brothers. That's Dwalin's scowl if I ever saw it, and there's Orla's hair and colouring. The littlest one in your arms is Frerin, and this fine little fellow here who is poking at my ironfoot is Balin, am I right?" Dáin said to Wee Thorin, who gulped.

"Yessir."

"Your father will not be pleased."

"Nossir."

"Nor will your mother."

Wee Thorin's eyes squeezed shut. "Nossir."

"And I expect _your_ father will be thrilled," said Dáin to Gimizh, who grinned unapologetically.

"Yessir!"

"Too bad he will leave the matter to _your_ mother," Dáin continued, and Gimizh groaned.

"Please don't tell? We only wanted to see the Elves!"

"And did you?" said the Stonehelm, his cheek twitching. "Were they all you imagined?"

"They're all skinny and stretched out and shiny, and they don't have _beards!"_ said Gimizh in a tone of fascinated disgust. Dáin laughed.

"No they don't, and I imagine it is a source of great pain for them."

  
  
The sons of Dwalin and Orla, by mandel21  


"It won't happen again," muttered Wee Thorin. "Promise. Only please don't tell!"

"I'll make you a deal." Dáin's eyes twinkled. "I will keep the secret if you will do me a great favour in return. Go to the kitchens and fetch me back a platter for three, and make sure there's a jug of ale! Then go to the forges and ask for the Queen. Tell her it's about time we had ourselves a family meal. Got all that?"

Wee Thorin's face was clearing, and Gimizh nodded rapidly. "Yessir! Thank you, sir!"

"Now scoot," said the Prince, putting down the toddling Frerin, "and take this pair of sticky-fingered imps with you, and don't let us catch you here again!"

"You won't," said Wee Thorin, grabbing Balin as Gimizh took Frerin's little hand.

With a parting grin, Gimizh added, "catch us, that is!"

Ori watched the little tribe of troublemakers as they skittered away, and then turned to Fíli with a puzzled look. "So, how are that lot related to you and Kíli again?"

Thrór began to chuckle.

* * *

The only sound was the rasp of his breath in his lungs. The trees all looked the same. Alone, Thorin pushed through the trees, searching for someone, anyone. Chaos reigned. He span in circles, his mind doing likewise.

A horn-call rang through the trees, and then there was a mighty cry. "Thorin!" Frerin screamed, somewhere to his right.

He clenched his fists, and ran on. His thoughts were awhirl. Some madness seemed to have possessed the Fellowship, and they were scattered to the winds. He was of no use. His Gift was of no use. Gimli was the only one who could hear him, and he was beset by his own foes and could not help. Thorin gritted his teeth and kept running, following the long, urgent song of the Horn of Gondor.

Entering the glade where Frerin stood, he stopped in utter shock, as terrible as knives and as sudden as a blow.

The two missing Hobbits were found. Merry and Pippin stood dumbstruck in horror. Before them swayed the tall form of Boromir. A black-fletched arrow pierced his breast, and he was choking. Around him lay the bodies of at least twenty of the great orcs. Upon a small rise stood the most monstrous yet, his face smeared with white paint in the shape of a hand. His hands gripped an evil-looking longbow with short, strong limbs.

Boromir took great gasping breaths, his face white as death beneath his sweaty hair. Then he gave a pain-filled cry and swung his sword again, his parries sluggish.

"He cannot possibly keep fighting," Frerin sobbed, and Thorin grabbed his brother and held him tightly.

"Do not watch," he rasped.

"Damn you, I should watch, I'll watch," Frerin cried, his fist coming down upon Thorin's chest. "He deserves that much!"

As Boromir took out the orc before him, another arrow flew into his belly with an evil hissing slither. Thorin could not restrain his own cry, and watched in stricken, mute dismay as the mighty man was rocked backwards, his body failing him and his head dipping forward as he gulped at the air. Blood began to seep from the corner of his mouth.

"No, no, no, no, no," Frerin said, a whispered, horror-filled litany.

With a huge effort, Boromir lifted his sword again, but barely had he taken a swing when another black arrow pierced him in the chest. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, and he dropped heavily to his knees. His breath was a horrible, wheezing gurgle.

"NO!" Pippin howled, and raised his little sword. "Boromir! Boromir!"

  
  
He only ever wished to save his people, by [ injureddreams](http://injureddreams.tumblr.com/post/78300279537/all-he-has-ever-wished-for-is-to-save-his)  


Merry lifted his voice and his sword with his cousin's, but it was no use. The tall orcs scooped them up and bore them away as they kicked and screamed. Boromir's eyes followed them with hopelessness and shame flickering in their depths, his limbs too weak to move. He could only kneel, and fight for his last breath.

The great orc with the White Hand upon his face strode towards him with an almost casual nonchalance. Thorin glared at him through eyes blurred with tears and hatred as Frerin shuddered in his arms. The orc sneered down at Boromir for a second, and Thorin had never wished so hard for Orcrist, had never wished so hard for life.

The bow's arms bent, and the orc took aim at Boromir's head as he knelt, trembling and shaking, in the blood-soaked leaves.

"No," Frerin whimpered, and he finally turned his face away to bury it against Thorin's chest.

Abruptly the trees parted to reveal Aragorn, and Thorin cried aloud in shock and hope. "Where in Durin's name have you _been!"_ he roared, and Frerin jerked away, swearing loudly.

"He's here, he's back!" he gabbled as Aragorn smashed his sword against the orc's black bow, sending the arrow harmlessly into the ground. Behind him, Nori came racing, his face red and his elaborate braids askew.

"Found him!" he puffed. "Took some doin', he's not a Ranger for nothing you kno- oh, sweet Maker below. Oh _no_." Nori's eyes landed on the trembling figure of Boromir.

"Yes," Thorin said grimly, and he steeled himself around his shrieking heart. Frerin watched the fight between Aragorn and the great orc with wide and frightened eyes. The orc pulled the knife from his shoulder and licked up the blade with a great foul slurp, his eyes locked upon Aragorn's and a vile smile curling his lips.

"It doesn't care at all if it is hurt," breathed Frerin, and his fists bunched suddenly. "I want my sword! I would wipe the whole of Arda clean of every orc in this moment!"

"Shh, nadadel," Thorin said hoarsely. "Shh."

"You must feel the same!" said Frerin, turning upon him with wild eyes. Thorin gripped his shoulders.

"I do, don't you think I do? But we may only watch. You told me that yourself, long ago."

"But he doesn't deserve it!" Frerin said furiously, "Boromir doesn't deserve such an end!" Then his eyes flickered with an old, dull pain. He let out a strangled noise and threw his arms as far as they would go around Thorin once more.

"Shh," Thorin said again, and looked up at where the orc grasped Aragorn's blade, sneering and growling in mockery as he pulled it _into_ his body simply to bring the Man within reach. Aragorn's face paled, and he stepped back, whipping his blade from the orc's stomach and bringing it around in a lightning-fast circle to cut off the beast's head.

Silence fell upon the sun-dappled glade.

Aragorn lurched, his sword falling from his hands, and then he stumbled over to where Boromir swayed. He lunged in time to catch the Man of Gondor as he spilled back upon the carpet of leaves. He was even paler, his skin chalky. His breath rattled.

"They took the little ones," he managed through blue lips.

Aragorn tore away a strip of Boromir's once-fine tunic, pressing it against one of the many wounds that littered his body. The arrows stood out from his chest obscenely, and Nori shuddered violently.

"Poor bloke," he whispered.

"Frodo, where is Frodo," said Boromir, his breath hissing through his teeth.

Aragorn's shoulders drooped slightly before he answered in a quiet voice, "I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the Ring from him," Boromir said, and the self-loathing and utter shame in his voice pricked at Thorin like a swarm of stinging insects. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face against Frerin's hair. "I am sorry. I have paid."

"The Ring is beyond our reach now," Aragorn said.

"Forgive me," Boromir pleaded, his voice broken. "I did not see." His head fell back into the leaves as his throat convulsed painfully, and his eyes were tormented. "I have failed you all."

Thorin could not swallow, and Frerin was a heavy, heavy weight in his arms. A hand settled upon his shoulder, and he wished he could turn to Nori, but his feet were lead and welded to the ground.

"No, Boromir," Aragorn said gently. "You fought bravely. You have kept your honour." He reached for Boromir's wounds again, but the Man beat him away with a feeble swipe.

"Leave it!" he said bitterly. "It is over! The world of Men will fall, and all will come to darkness... and my city to ruin." A look of anguish passed over his bloodless features.

"Tell him," Thorin growled suddenly, a fire igniting in his chest. "All he has ever wished for is to save his people. They suffer and die, and he watches helplessly. You – you who choose exile – you who could be their salvation! You cannot know how that feels, what it does to a heart. Tell him, damn you, or deny your blood forever! Do not let him die thinking his life and death were all in vain!"

Aragorn took a deep breath, before he said slowly, "I do not know what strength is in my blood. But I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall."

Boromir stared at him, an impossible light beginning to shine in his pain-ravaged face.

"Nor our people fail," Aragorn said in nearly a whisper.

The fire and tension drained from Thorin in a huge rushing flood, and he sagged against his brother. Nori's hand gripped his shoulder comfortingly. "Ayamuhud zu, Boromir," he said, and bowed his head. His eyelids felt heavy.

"Our people," Boromir said, and his lips trembled. " _Our people."_

Aragorn nodded once, and Thorin could suddenly see it. "The Lords of Gondor have returned," he murmured to himself, "The Lords of Gondor have returned." Then he bit his lip, hard as Boromir held out his quivering hand and Aragorn curled his fingers around the grip of his fallen sword. The dying Man pressed it against his chest and fought for his last, agonising breaths.

A soft sound of leaves moving from the other side of the clearing heralded the arrival of Gimli and the Elf, but Thorin could not take his eyes from Boromir. The bloodless blue lips were pulled into a wistful smile, the teeth stained with his life's blood.

"I would have followed you, my brother," said Boromir, looking up at Aragorn with a hopeless, helpless reverence. "My Captain."

His last breath juddered into his lungs, and he breathed, "My _King."_

Then the light faded from his eyes. His once-proud head rolled a little to the side.

Nori made a strangled rasping sound beneath his breath. Frerin shook with rage. Thorin turned away as Aragorn kissed the dead Man's brow as a King ought. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the track of wetness seep down his cheek and roll into his beard. Inhaling slowly, he opened his eyes and searched out his star.

Gimli's face was horror-struck and slack with shock and disbelief. His axe swung loosely in hands made numb with new grief, and his dark eyes were glossy and wide, his lips parted and his breath coming fast. At his side, the Elf looked strangely confused, his head tilting as he looked upon the sorrowful scene. His face was a mixture of bewilderment and loss. As before, the Elf did not seem to know how to approach his own grief.

Aragorn stood, and let the tears fall from his eyes with no trace of self-consciousness. "They will look for his coming at the White Tower," he said softly. "But he will not return."

"The Hobbits?" cried Gimli. "Where are they? Where is Frodo?"

Legolas paused, and then he gave Aragorn a piercing look with his Elven eyes. "You mean not to follow them."

Aragorn bent and carefully folded Boromir's fingers closer around his sword's handle, before he stopped. Then he began to remove the Man's vambraces, a distant note in his voice as he replied, "Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands."

"Then it has all been in vain," Gimli said bitterly, and his face twisted in anger and sadness. "The Fellowship has failed."

"Not if we hold true to each other," Aragorn said, and he looked up, Boromir's vambraces in his hands. A new light, strong and fey and full of power, shone in his eyes. "We cannot abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death."

"You had best hold true to your oaths to the dead," Thorin snarled, and Frerin looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Brother," he ventured tentatively, and Thorin shook his head roughly.

"You take up his cares now," he said to Aragorn, his heart aching. "You must not fail him. No more hiding in the shadows, Elendil's heir."

"We must tend the fallen," said Legolas, and even his light Elven voice was subdued and dulled. "We cannot leave him lying here amongst these foul orcs."

"We must be swift," Aragorn said, and he bound Boromir's vambraces around his own forearms with a firm tug. "Let us lay him in a boat with his weapons and those of his vanquished foes. The River of Gondor will take care at least that no evil creature dishonours his bones."

Gimli cut several branches and lashed them together, and these became a rough bier upon which they carried their fallen friend down to the boats. The green lawn of Parth Galen seemed a different place altogether as they reached the burned-out fire and the remnants of their camp.

Bifur was standing at the riverbank, patiently watching the distant shore. He nodded to Thorin as they arrived, and then his face paled dramatically at the sight of the Elf, Man and Dwarf all carrying their body of their fallen comrade.

"There they go!" said Gimli, gesturing with one hand to the boat drawn up upon the far eastern side of the river. "May Mahal protect and guide them, and keep them from all danger."

Aragorn let his eyes linger on the two small forms that disappeared into the trees, and then he sighed soundlessly and turned back to the grim job at hand.

"Oh, unkhash, adùruth, nekhushel!" Bifur breathed at the sight of Boromir's rent and bloodied corpse.

"Aye," said Nori, bowing his head. "Not a fun way to go."

The last three members of the Fellowship laid him in one of the boats, and arranged his sword and his broken horn about him, the spears and swords of the orcs clustered beneath his prone form. He looked peaceful and restful at last, Thorin thought with towering resentment, and he wondered where Men departed to after they left the light of Arda.

Legolas knelt by the side of the boat and regarded Boromir's face with that mixture of grief and confusion once more. He lifted a cupped hand filled with river-water, and began to wash away the blood smeared upon the Man's cheek and brow. Aragorn stood still as stone, his head bowed. Then slowly he began to sing of the West Wind, asking for tidings of Boromir that would never come.

The blood and dirt had been cleaned from Boromir's skin, and Legolas stood as Aragorn stopped his song. His clear, light, unearthly Elvish voice rose in song, and he sang of the South Wind and the sea. Boromir would never come that way again; never ride to his white city with the Southerlies racing in his wake and stirring his hair.

Aragorn sang again, this time of the North Wind. It was a strange and eerie scene, thought Thorin. Elvish in the extreme, yet profound and mournful for all that. The songs reminded him of Lothlórien: the sorrow that mingled inescapably with beauty. As Aragorn trailed off, he touched a forefinger to the vambraces tied about his forearms.

Gimli was silent, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched as though he was warding off blows. "I will not sing of the East wind," he muttered.

"In Gondor, they do not ask the East Wind for tidings, as they are always evil," Aragorn answered dully. "We must leave."

" _Namárië_ , Boromir," said Legolas softly, and together he and Aragorn gave the grey boat of the Galadhrim a gentle push, sending it into the current of Anduin.

Then the Elf turned back to allow his eyes to settle again on Gimli. Thorin's star was pale, his face drawn into lines of pain once more. His dark eyes were screwed shut.

"My friend," Legolas said, and he dropped to a crouch before the Dwarf, his expression open and full of sorrow and sympathy. "Here."

Gimli opened his eyes, and saw Legolas' slim white knife offered to him. He stared at it, unmoving, for a long moment, and then he took it in his great thick-fingered hands, his palm sliding over the hilt.

Legolas watched, utterly silent, as Gimli undid the plaits of his bright beard. His hand rose, the white knife glinting, and a swathe of red hair fell into the foaming white water as Boromir was carried away towards Rauros-falls, and Gondor.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Namárië - farewell  
> Laerophen – Tree Song (one person)
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Melekûnh – hobbits  
> Baknd ghelekh – good morning  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Unkhash – the greatest sorrow  
> Adùruth – Mourning  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Ayamuhud – blessings upon  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> zabadel - Lord of Lords  
> Abbad- I am here!  
> Haban - Gem  
> Mizim - Jewel  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Sakhab - look  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the movie and from the chapters, "The Breaking of the Fellowship" and "The Departure of Boromir".
> 
> * * *
> 
> _OMG YOU AMAZING INCREDIBLE LOVELY PEOPLE *flips table*_   
>  _SWEET MERCIFUL MAHAL *tears hair*_   
>  _OVER 1000 KUDOS !!!!!!! *floats into the air*_   
>  _I AM STUNNED BEYOND BELIEF *backflips into the rainbow*_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>   _Thank you thank you thank you THANK YOUUUUUAKHFDSKHLKJG:KHFLJYF_  
> 


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So, to say thank you to the delightful and talented[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) for all her gorgeous fan-art, I wrote another gift one-shot set in the Sansûkh-iverse! Here it is: [**Little Wild One**](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/61293864494/sansukh-side-fic-little-wild-one). I hope you enjoy 8D_
> 
> ...
> 
>  **Meet a** **Dwarrowdam** :  
>  _Ymrís, Royal Concubine of Óin I_
> 
>   [](http://yorikosakakibara.deviantart.com/art/Ymris-402713867)  
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _Ymrís the Concubine, by[FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/62223711416/ymris-by-yorikosakakibara-determamfidds-oc) ([YorikoSakakibara](http://yorikosakakibara.deviantart.com/art/Ymris-402713867))_  
> 
> 
> The daughter of a mason and a tinsmith, Ymrís was an extraordinary beauty. Her hair was a rare and pure silver, often compared to mithril, and her eyes were so light a brown they appeared gold. Little is known about her early life, other than her beauty and her great skills as an axe-dancer. These two assets she used to her advantage, and inveigled her way into the court by way of her dancing. There she caught the eye of the (married) Crown Prince, soon to be King Óin I. Ymrís was witty, beautiful and accomplished beyond measure, and he instantly fell in love. However, Ymrís would not be persuaded to act as mistress to a married Dwarrow. Óin pined for Ymrís for nearly five decades, during which he showered her with extravagant gifts which she mostly returned - publically. It became a famous scandal, and all three of the main players were miserable. Finally Óin's wife, Greni, an Ironfist noblewoman, took pity on the pair and left for her homeland. It created quite a outcry when Óin finally declared that he had found his One and bound himself to her before the eyes of his court. The Council of the Grey Mountains ruled that even so, Óin and Ymrís could not wed, as he was still legally bound to Greni. Ymrís was pregnant at that time, and eventually gave birth to a daughter, Óris. Ymrís became commonly known as the King's Concubine, a title she abhorred. She became something of a recluse and never ventured beyond her rooms, a sad fate for such a vivacious and witty Dwarrowdam. By the time of her death, many were surprised to know that she had still been alive.
> 
> Óin's son by Greni, Náin, inherited the throne, and Ymrís' daughter Óris escaped into obscurity following her parent's deaths. However, she was the progenitor of the line of Ri, the last of which were the three brothers, Dori, Nori and Ori.

"Meeting," Thorin growled, grabbing the tunic of the next passing Dwarrow he saw and dragging him to his eye-level. " _Now."_

It was Lóni, he dimly saw through his rage. The tall Dwarrow gulped. "Um. Yes, Thorin. I'll just go get everyone, shall I?"

Thorin let him go and stalked through the Halls like an avenging spectre, his face thunderous. He could hear footsteps skittering to catch up with him, but he outpaced them. He headed directly for his forge, his heart in flames.

Upon entering, he leaned against his workbench for a moment, his breath coming hard through his nose. Boromir was dead. Boromir had died, and the evil and the temptation of the Ring had finally worn down his nobility, and he had attacked the Hobbit. He had regained himself, and then he had died.

Merry and Pippin were captured.

Frodo and Sam were going to Mordor _alone._

Gimli stood with the Elf and Aragorn – Aragorn who had finally taken up his true mantle. Time would tell whether he kept his word to his dead companion. Boromir.

Frerin had said it was not his fault. He was ill.

"He should not have died!" Thorin growled, and he pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes and tried to strangle the shout of fury that was building in the pit of his belly. His darting eyes fell on his hammer, and he took it up and threw it against the wall. There. That was better.

Mahal, but that had made a mess. A huge hole now stood in the wall of his workshop, and Thorin stood and stared at it for a moment, panting and incandescent with rage.

The Elf's face had been confused and so grief-stricken. Did Elves feel grief as mortals did? Or was it even deeper and sharper, ever-fresh and raw, as their memories never faded? The Elf had said they fled Middle-Earth when it overwhelmed them at last. Thorin could well believe it now. Lothlórien was a land filled with glory and sorrow. Did they ever move on from that bittersweet, lingering sadness?

He had handed Gimli his knife. He showed respect for the traditions of their people.

"Elves do not alter themselves or their ways for the sake of Dwarves," he snarled to himself, and sat down upon his chair with his head in his hands. His eyes stung.

He could not say how long he had been sitting there, his head awhirl and his heart aflame, when a cleared throat made him look up. "I keep finding you like this," Kíli said in a muted voice. "I heard. Are you all right?"

Thorin breathed in sharply through his nose again, and stood. "No. I am not all right. But I have little time to indulge myself."

Kíli's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Wow, Mahal was right, you really are changing," he said. Then his eyes landed on the hole in the wall, and his mouth quirked in a crooked smile. "Or not, as the case may be."

Thorin only looked at him, level and hard and full of anger. Kíli lifted one shoulder awkwardly. "The meeting is called. It's in Thrór's forge, as before."

Thorin immediately strode from his workshop. Kíli rushed to follow, and he fell into step with his uncle as they made their way through the magnificent and yet faded world of the dead.

Where did Men go when they lost their mortal thread?

Thorin shook his head with a growl, willing his morbid thoughts to leave him. The Fellowship had broken. He must be strong.

Thrór's forge was packed once more, and every face turned to him as he entered. Voices raised in alarm, demanding and panicked.

Frerin hovered, his face drawn and pinched. His sadness lingered in his eyes. Thorin's rage froze in his breast, and he immediately went to him and pulled him into an embrace as the shouting and demands for information grew louder. "Are you all right?" he murmured against Frerin's hair.

"No," Frerin mumbled, and then their mother was there. She turned their heads towards her with her soft, sweet-smelling hands, and gave them a sad smile.

"My boys," she said softly. "Oh, my boys."

"Mum, the Man Boromir, he..." Frerin blurted, and she stroked his hair.

"I know, my bright golden boy, I know. Nori has reported."

"I have failed Bilbo," Thorin muttered. "Frodo is departing into the wilds, bound for Mordor, alone but for Sam. Gimli was to be my champion. I have failed my One."

"You have not," she said, and pulled his ear gently in the way she often did. "You did not. Thorin, Frodo has made a choice. Remember, what did I say to you about taking on responsibility for the choices of others?"

"That I do not need to take on the burdens that are others' to bear," Thorin said, and lowered his head. Her hand settled against his beard, her fingers combing lightly. "That no-one is strong enough for that." _But they should be. By Mahal, I should be._

"Good," she praised him, her hand ceaseless upon his cheek and the braid by his ear. "Well remembered, my steely stormcloud."

Thorin let his eyes drift shut. He allowed the sound of the voices all shouting around him to fade into the background, burying them beneath the thundering of his rage. He allowed himself the luxury of a slow inhale, drawing strength for a moment from his brother and mother: from their familiar scents and the feel of their breath and the pulse of blood beneath their skin, warm and alive under his palms.

Then he opened his eyes, and clenched his jaw. Turning upon the crowd of hollering, panicking Dwarrows, he raised his hands. "SILENCE!" he bellowed, and glared at them all.

"Really, really don't push it right now," Kíli hissed to the crowd. " _Really._ "

"You demand answers? Here they are. Boromir is dead," Thorin said curtly. "The Fellowship is broken."

Every Dwarrow's face drained of colour to be filled with horror and dejection.

"Ah, no!" Thrór breathed, and he bowed his head.

"Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal," Balin murmured, and he put his hand against his chest in remembrance and respect.

"Was it – did the - the Ring?" asked Thráin with dread, and Thorin gave a short nod, his heart thundering in his ribs and his rage a near-palpable thing. A silence descended upon their gathering, and many heads lowered, eyes squeezing shut. Thráin's gaze dropped to his left hand, his eyes lingering upon his bare fingers with a remembered pain sparking in their dark depths.

Lóni began to hum the mourning-song, and beside him Frár took his hand and joined in. Fundin let his head fall into his hands, a muffled curse dropping from his lips. Thrór looked as if a single word could shatter him, his face twisted in old guilt and new sorrow.

"Now what do we do?" said Ori in a hushed voice.

Balin lifted his head, and his voice was distant. "All that work."

"We only got to have our schedule for _one damned watch!"_ moaned Náli.

"We must adapt," Thorin said, his teeth snapping around the words. "We must create two more watches. Frodo and Sam travel to Mordor alone, and—"

He was able to get no further. Every Dwarf was abruptly on their feet, eyes wide and shouting. Óin was stamping his feet against the floor. "He was meant t' _protect him!"_ he said, his beard bristling. "Gimli can't protect th' Hobbit when he isn't even near him!"

"Mordor is no place for a Hobbit!" said Balin firmly. "What in Mahal's name is that Aragorn thinking – or is he thinking at all!?"

"Frodo's decision," Thorin began, only to be interrupted by Nori.

"No, they're better off without the others. Hobbits are good sneakers! They'll be less likely to be spotted. Dunno if you've ever noticed it, but Gimli isn't exactly inconspicuous, and that damned Elf will stand out like a tourmaline amongst gravel."

"But Merry and Pippin," said Frerin unhappily, and Kíli started in surprise.

"Where are they?"

"They are captured," Thorin said. "The Uruks of Saruman have them. Gimli and his two companions mean to follow them and take them back."

"Two more rotations," muttered Ori, and he groaned.

"All right, everyone sit down," Thrór growled. "We have work to do."

"And we have no time," Thorin said tersely. "We must make this decision now, and quickly. I will remain with Gimli. Grandfather?"

"I stay at Erebor," said Thrór, nodding.

"I remain watching the Elves, and Balin stays with the Men?" said Hrera, "but we will need two more teams."

"I'll take one," said Fíli, standing.

Thorin's head snapped to his nephew, who was pale and stiff, but proud. "Fíli, unday..."

"I'll watch Frodo and Sam," he said, lifting his chin. "Uncle. I insist. I can do this."

His nephews had never had the opportunity for real leadership. Never had Fíli learned what it truly meant to be a Prince of the House of Durin. There were other Dwarrows here, Dwarf-lords and Kings and leaders used to command, who could take the watch.

But Fíli deserved a chance to take on the responsibilities of his birth. Thorin let the weight of his eyes settle upon Fíli a moment longer, and then nodded slowly. Fíli's eyes glowed with the light of challenge, but he said nothing.

"I'm going with him," said Kíli immediately, standing up next to his brother.

"Oh, like anyone really thought we'd be able to pry you apart," snorted Bifur. "O'course you are."

"It will not be a pleasant detail," Thorin warned them quietly. "Remember their destination."

Kíli swallowed, but Fíli nodded resolutely. "I'll do it," he said.

Frerin ducked his head, an envious look crossing his eyes. Ori muttered a curse under his breath, and began to scrawl all over his neat schedule with rapid flicks of his stylus.

Thráin tipped his head. "The last?"

"Merry and Pippin," Thorin said upon a gusty sigh. His rage was fading slowly, to be replaced by a terrible aching grief. "We may hope that this watch will not be needed for long. Gimli and his companions will catch them."

"Gimli doesn't have wings on his feet," said Nori dryly. "Those big bastards have a good head-start on 'em."

"We will need someone with speed," Thorin said. "A small team. Someone who can keep up with the pace the orcs are setting."

Frerin's head whipped up, and he opened his mouth. "No," Thorin told him.

He glowered, jealousy sparking in his blue eyes. He folded his arms. "And why not?"

"I would not send you from my side," Thorin said bluntly. "I need you with me, nadad."

Frerin blinked, before his face went slack and soft. "Um. All right," he mumbled, and then he slumped back in his seat, a dazed and wondering look on his face.

Ori tentatively put his stylus in the air. "You ought to remember how fast I can be," he said.

Frár nudged his husband, and Lóni pulled a face. "And I suppose I'm faster than most," he said reluctantly.

"Like old times," Ori told Lóni, and the tall Dwarrow's expression turned dark.

"Let's hope not."

Flói glanced at his comrades from the days of the colony of Khazad-dûm, and he shrugged. "I can move when I want to, I guess."

"Very well," Thorin said. "Take turns. Do not wear yourselves out all at once, and report back to the Lady Frís."

"Like a relay," Ori mumbled, and he scribbled down some more on his now-ruined schedule.

"I return to Gimli now," Thorin said to their gathering. He then sent his worried parents a look of acknowledgement, though it was tempered with a hard and steely resolve. He would not stay longer than he was required to, though the temptation was strong. "Who is by my side?"

"Me," Frerin said immediately.

"I am," said Óin.

"How's your head, by the way?" murmured Hrera, and Óin scowled furiously. There were deep black rings beneath his eyes.

"And me," said Náli, standing up.

Thorin nodded, and turned on his heel to stride from the room, and the clatter of boots behind him told him that his new companions were following.

Frerin ran up to his side, and pressed against him with his shoulder as they walked. "Thorin?"

"No, I am not all right, but I will be," he said flatly, answering the unspoken questions before Frerin could put voice to them. "Yes, I am sorry I cannot allow you to have a watch of your own."

Frerin frowned. "Can you at least tell me why not? Why do you need me with you?"

"You are the only one who has dared to speak of that time," Thorin said without slowing his pace or turning his head. "You are the only one who has spoken of the gold-madness to me. In eighty years, none have ever mustered the courage. All these decades I have thought of my sickness as my own fault. You, though." Thorin smiled grimly as ahead the pearl-encrusted doors of the Chamber of Sansûkhul came into view. "You said that my madness was not of my own making. I did not choose to be sick, and nor did Boromir. When my guilt flared once more at the cruelty and familiarity of his fate, it was you, my brother – half my weight and a head shorter than I – you threatened to strike me if I dared think such a thing ever again. I need you by me, nadadîth. When despair and anger threaten to drown my reason, I can still hear your voice."

Frerin was very quiet for a moment, his head dipping slightly. Then he looked up, and he was smiling tremulously. "You're welcome, Thorin."

Thorin laid his hand upon his brother's smaller shoulder and left it there for a long, wordless moment of gratitude. Anger and sorrow still buffeted him, but his determination had been reforged.

The stars were harsh and unforgiving this time. They stripped Thorin bare and seared his skin and scorched his eyes, and sent him spiralling into blackness. He blinked, breathing in the rich air of Arda, aching in soul and body. It barely made a difference. Darkness reigned either way.

"Is it night?" wondered Náli.

"Yes, the smallest hours," Thorin said, narrowing his eyes. "There!"

Three dark shapes were moving through the shadows, and Thorin jerked his head to his companions, indicating that they should follow. They followed over the grey and rocky terrain of the highlands of the Emyn Muil to where Aragorn crouched down upon the ground, his hand fossicking in the dirt and his face grim.

"What's he doing?" hissed Óin.

"Can you read the signs?" Gimli asked as he reached where Aragorn had stopped. The Man snorted softly.

"Gimli, even so inexperienced a woodsman as _you_ could read these signs. This trail is clear to find."

"No other folk make such a trampling," said Legolas. "It seems it is their delight to slash and beat down growing things that are not even in their way."

"Still, they move with great speed," Aragorn said, and stood.

"Well, let's get after them!" Gimli said. "Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than orcs. Still, they have quite a start on us."

"Yes, we will need all the endurance of Dwarves," said Aragorn, looking out over the rocky crevasses. "We must make this such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves and Men alike. Forth the Three Hunters!"

Gimli bared his teeth in savage agreement, and Legolas sprang forward to take the lead. He took the barely-visible trail that snaked between the ridges, following the gullies and ravines with sure-footed fleetness. Aragorn ran behind him, his head darting this way and that, searching for signs of the uruks' passing. Gimli charged behind them grimly as though he could continue to run through solid rock.

"Running," Óin puffed. "This is going to get wearisome very fast."

"We can stop at any time, and we're not wearing full armour," Frerin pointed out. "Think how Gimli feels."

"He can run in full armour," Náli grunted as he pounded along, "I made sure o' that when I trained him."

"Save your breath," Thorin commanded.

"Aye, that was the key to it."

The night passed slowly, and several times Aragorn stopped them to read some sign or another. Occasionally he brought Gimli beside him to use his Dwarven night-vision. Slowly the sky changed from the deep velvet black of night to the steely thready light before dawn, and Aragorn called a halt once more.

"We will rest briefly," he said, and Gimli threw himself down and groaned. Even Legolas sagged in relief. "This dale runs down into the lands of the Horse-Lords."

"Which way will the orcs turn, do you think?" Legolas asked. "Northwards is the straighter road to Isengard."

"They will not make for the river," Aragorn said after a moment, his eyes gazing over the sweep of grassy rolling hills in the near distance, all stained purple and blue by the cool amorphous light. "They will avoid the Entwash if they can. Unless Rohan is now under the heel of Saruman, they will seek to spend as little time here as possible. Northwards is the shortest way."

"North it is," Gimli said, and pulled off his helmet to rub at his sweaty brow. "Thank Mahal for small mercies. At least we will not be running towards the sunrise!"

"I expect that would do no favours for your night-vision, mellon nin," smiled Legolas, before he sat down across from Gimli and raised his eyes to the fading stars.

Aragorn only allowed them an hour, and then they were on the move again. As they passed from the stony crags of the foothills of Emyn Muil, Legolas cried aloud, "see this? Here are some of those we hunt!"

Five bodies, etched in grey by the pale dawn, lay propped against a crag. "Orcs!" Gimli exclaimed, and he hefted his axe upon his back and picked up his pace to catch up with his faster companions.

Aragorn came close and peered at the fallen corpses, rent with wounds and torn asunder, frowning. "That is no Uruk-Hai," he said slowly. "That orc bears the Great Eye, not the White Hand. This is a Northern Orc."

"Ach!" Gimli spat, and he made a sign so filthy in Iglishmêk that Óin gasped in scandalised shock. "Foul things. They ever plague the northernmost surrounds of Erebor with their filth."

"Gimli!" Óin wheezed, horrified.

"I taught him that one, too," Náli murmured.

Frerin muffled a snicker.

"I think the enemy brought his own enemy with him," Aragorn said. He lifted his head and shaded his eyes, peering into the bright dawn light for any sign of the orc-party. "There must have been some quarrel. It is no uncommon thing, with these foul folk."

"Back to the hunt," said Legolas.

Thorin pressed ahead, trying to keep up with the three hunters, but only Frerin was swift enough to keep pace with the light-footed Elf and the long-legged Man. Gimli trailed behind, though he never faltered. As Thorin had seen before, Gimli's legs moved rhythmically and without pause, his heavy boots eating away with steady strides at the ground. He was not swift, but it seemed that he would never stop.

"I'm not good fer this," Óin groaned, putting a hand at his side.

"I expect you regret all those ales now, eh?" Frerin shouted back from his place at the lead, and Thorin's lips turned up the slightest amount, though he could spare no other effort. Óin didn't reply with words, but he did growl quite loudly.

"Do you see that?" Aragorn called, his hand gesturing to the South. A great range of mountains lay blushing rose in the morning light, their peaks capped with snow. "The White Mountains! There lies Gondor – would that I looked on it in a happier hour."

"So. There is Boromir's beloved home," said Gimli, his mouth curling into a bitter line. "He was so close."

"Losto vae, Boromir," Legolas murmured, and he closed his eyes and his proud neck arched as he turned his face away.

"Gondor, Gondor! Not yet does my road lie southward to your bright streams," Aragorn said to the crisp morning air, his lips tight and angry. His hand curled around the vambrace bound upon the opposite arm. Then he drew his eyes away from the south and back to the north-west where his way led.

"Thorin," said Frerin softly, and he turned to his brother as the Elf, Man and Dwarf sped on through the foothills of Emyn Muil down to the green swathe that was Rohan. "We can do no good here. Gimli will run whether we run beside him or not."

Glancing at the wheezing Óin and the red-faced Náli, Thorin gritted his teeth. "I will return as soon as permitted."

"No-one will stop you," said Náli wearily, wiping at his face. "I'm volunteerin' to watch Elves next time."

Óin made a pitiful little noise of agreement.

"Come on," Frerin said, and he took Thorin's arm.

Thorin closed his eyes.

* * *

Thorin slept, but did not stay abed long. Six hours after he had left Gimli he was awake once more and plunging back into the waters of Gimlîn-zâram. He swam into the light, searching for his star, and Rohan.

When he emerged, shaking and blinking, it was well into the day. Beside him, his father squinted up at the sun, half-hidden behind the clouds. Thorin gazed about him in surprise. The grey rock of Emyn Muil had been left some distance behind, and a rich rolling country surrounded him, swelling and falling like a great green sea of grass.

"How long have they run?" Thráin asked.

"This is the second day, and they have rested only briefly," Thorin answered absently. "Where – _there."_

"Legolas!" Aragorn called from behind the Elf. "What do your Elf-eyes see?"

The Elf was standing high upon a treeless rise, his unsettling Elven eyes piercing the sullen sky. "A great company on foot," he called, "but what kind of folk they are, I cannot say. They turn north-east. If it is the Uruks, they are taking the Hobbits to Isengard, as we thought."

"I can see nothing but miles an' miles of bloody Rohan," Gimli said, shaking his head. "In the light, Legolas, you do indeed have eyes."

Legolas smiled down at him, quick and bright.

"The day grows older," Aragorn said. "We have found a sign, the Elven brooch, and we know our pursuit is not in vain. Still, we should not waste the sun while we have it."

Gimli sighed, and gestured with one thick-fingered hand. "Lead on, lad. My legs would be more willing if my heart were not so heavy."

"We gain on them," Legolas said staunchly. "Gwaem!"

"Light feet may run swiftly here," Aragorn said. "More swiftly than iron-shod orcs."

Gimli looked down at his heavy steel-bound boots, and then gave Aragorn a sardonic look that spoke volumes. Legolas covered his smile with a hand.

"Come, let us go on," Aragorn said, and he led them in single file, running like hounds on a strong scent. The Man's long legs ate up the miles and Thorin thought again that it was no wonder the folk of the North called him Strider. The Elf seemed barely to touch the ground, as lithe as a deer, his feet passing fleet and soundless through the grass. Behind them came Gimli, as inexorable as the tides, his thick legs moving like pistons.

Thorin ran on after them, the heavy footfalls of his father following. "A sign?" Thráin managed to say.

"He mentioned an Elven brooch," Thorin answered, his brow furrowed and his gaze fixed upon the north. "The cloaks from Lothlórien are clasped with them. One of the Hobbits must have slipped it away, a clue for their pursuers to find. Let us hope he did not pay too dearly for his boldness."

On and on and on they ran, and Thorin shook the stinging sweat from his eyes and willed his legs to keep moving. The sun slipped through the sky, and still they raced over the fields as though all the wargs of Mordor rode at their heels. His father had to cease after five hours, his beard matted and his legs trembling. Gimli was beginning to look rather grey-faced, and his steps were growing heavier. "Strength, inùdoy," Thorin said, his chest burning.

Gimli's smile was very strained. "Idmi, zabadâl belkul. Just enjoying a brisk jog in the sunshine," he croaked, never pausing in his stride.

"Ha." Thorin looked up at the setting sun, passing behind the distant shapes of the Misty Mountains far to the west. "The light will fail in a matter of hours, my star. Do you run through another night?"

"Durin's beard, I hope not," Gimli grunted, and then he grimaced. "But the thought of those young merry folk captured by those... those..."

"Yes, I saw," Thorin said, and he fell silent as again his rage flared in his breast.

"Then you saw the fall of Boromir," Gimli said, and he lowered his head and hunched his shoulders like a bull as he ran on, his feet thudding unceasingly upon the soft grass. "Would that I had been there sooner! We have had an evil luck upon us these last few days."

"You could not have known," Thorin said, and he wiped at his brow once more. "Now, save your breath. These tall folk may outpace you, but you are a Dwarf and will outlast them."

"Doubt it," Gimli said. "I may go on long after Aragorn falters, but that Elf is the most tireless fellow I ever met. He barely needs sleep at all!"

Thorin scowled and bent his head anew to the chase.

Frár, Gróin and Frerin flickered into sight as the sun set, yawning. "Should have woken me," Frerin grumbled, falling into step.

Thorin had no breath with which to answer, following Gimli's broad back through the failing light.

Aragorn held up his hand as they crested another rise, the pink clouds deepening to purple as the sun finally sought its bed. He licked his dry and cracking lips to speak. "Now we come to a hard choice," he said once he had found his breath. "Do we go on while our will and strength hold, or do we rest through the night?"

"I can see no sign of the host from before," Legolas said, "though in this light perhaps Gimli is the better one to ask."

"I cannae see that distance, light or dark," Gimli said and shook his head. "Still, surely even Orcs must pause on the march?"

"Seldom do Orcs journey under the sun, and yet these have done so," Legolas pointed out. "Night is their preferred time. They will not stop."

"But we will miss any sign of the trail," Aragorn said, sighing. "We would not have found the brooch in the dark."

"Aye, and we will miss it if any tracks lead away," Gimli sighed, and rubbed his aching legs. "Even I, a Dwarf of many journeys and not the least hardy of my folk, cannot run all the way to Isengard without any pause. My heart burns me too, and I would have started sooner, but now should we not rest a while to run the better?"

"I said it was a hard choice," Aragorn said, pushing back his stringy hair made limp with sweat.

"You are our guide," Gimli said, "and you are skilled in the chase. You shall choose."

"My heart bids me go on," said Legolas, "but we must hold together. I will follow your counsel."

"You give the choice to an ill chooser," said Aragorn heavily. "Since we passed through the Argonath, all my decisions have gone amiss." He fell silent and turned his eyes northwards again, as though the strength of his will could part the gathering dark.

"The moon is shrouded tonight, and it is young and pale," he finally said. "It is most likely we would miss the trail or any sign of coming or going. We will take our rest, and may I not regret it as I have all my other choices of late."

Thorin's brows drew together, and he looked up at Aragorn with some surprise and concern. "It seems you are also in need of the advice my mother gave me," he said to the Man's careworn face. "You could not have known, Aragorn. You have no fault in any choice of Frodo's, nor in your movements since Boromir's death. Do not do as I do. Do not be a bearer of heavy burdens. No, instead be the beacon of hope. Be their King."

Frerin gave a half-gasp, half-choke and turned to him with wide and dumbfounded eyes. " _Nadad."_

Thorin sent him a sidelong glance. "Yes?"

Frerin only gaped at him, his mouth hanging open. "You... you...!"

Thorin lowered his head, and a faint, rueful smile crossed his lips. "I have learned my lessons well. Not quickly. But well."

"Would that the Lady gave us a light, such as she gave Frodo!" Gimli murmured. "We could keep going. Oh, poor wee Hobbits! Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu."

Legolas looked fascinated by the use of Khuzdul again, and Gróin let his head drop into his hands and groaned loudly. "Damn you, grandson," he muttered into his palms. "No discretion at all!"

"The Lady gives no gift where it is not needed," Aragorn said. "With him lies the real Quest, and ours is but a small matter in the great deeds of this time. A vain pursuit from its beginning, maybe."

"Far too grim," Thorin grunted. "Give them heart; do not take it away!"

Gimli's mouth twitched beneath his handsome moustache. "Well, if we are to rest, let us begin that straight away! I am not ashamed to admit I could do with it."

Aragorn sighed and nodded. Then he cast himself upon the ground and fell at once into sleep, for he had not rested once since the night before their camp at Parth Galen.

Gimli groaned as he stretched out his legs, and he rubbed at his calves with his massive fingers. "I will warp like steel that is heated unevenly," he muttered.

"You will not," Legolas said, his steps as quick and light as ever as he came to crouch down before the Dwarf. "You have surprised me yet again, Master Gimli. I never thought a Dwarf could run so far or so fast."

"Far, I'll grant you," Gimli said dryly. "Fast is not one of my better-known traits, however."

"He's a sight faster than I am," said Frár, pressing a hand against his chest.

"And I," said Thorin. Gróin only whimpered.

" _I'm_ faster than him," Frerin said proudly.

"Aye, that you are," Thorin said, and he cuffed his brother's ear affectionately. "But only because he is twice as broad as you."

Frerin scowled, and then he sighed gloomily. "Well, that's nothing new."

"Legolas?" said Gimli suddenly, pausing in his massage of his tense muscles. "Thank you for giving me your knife. You know. When I-"

"There is no need for thanks," Legolas said gently.

"I would still offer them," Gimli insisted, and the Elf smiled.

"Well, who am I to refuse them?"

Gimli chuckled tiredly. "Indeed, you should feel rather fortunate. That a Dwarf of the Line of Durin offers thanks to an Elf of Mirkwood for his acceptance of our mourning rituals? That is no common happenstance."

"I expect not," Legolas said, and a new and wary note had entered his voice. He sat down on the grass beside Gimli and tipped back his head to peer up at the clouded stars. "And... are you alone at this time?"

"No," Gimli said, and he grinned. "There is a Man sleeping over there, and a bothersome Elf beside me who asks impertinent questions and never lets a poor Dwarf have a moment's peace - ach!"

For at the last, Legolas snorted and poked Gimli's leg. The Dwarf's thick, dense muscles were too painful to stand it, and he let out a strangled yelp. "You bloody swine," Gimli growled, and then he flopped back onto the grass. "I am too tired for revenge. Know that it will be swift and merciless."

"I tremble in fear," Legolas smiled. "Are you alone, then, in truth? Do your kin follow our chase?"

"Aye, they do." Gimli yawned hugely. "I am beginning to feel the difference. Always there is my kinsman, the great Thorin Oakenshield. He is the one whose voice I hear in my heart, if not in my ears. Then there is a younger presence that I do not know. And then two more – one or more is family, I know that much, but from which branch I cannot say."

"Perceptive indeed, inùdoy," Thorin said, stunned.

"He knows I am here!" breathed Gróin. "But – he was so young when I died, barely past forty-!"

"He knows we're _all_ here," said Frár, and his deep calm voice shook. "I must tell Lóni!"

"Even me!" Frerin squawked. " _How_?"

"Mahal only knows," Thorin said, breathless in awe and gratitude.

"Did you know him, in life?" Legolas said tentatively, and Gimli hummed a little.

"Aye, and no. He was a hero of my people after the Battle of Azanulbizar. He and Dáin were the two to turn the tide – Thorin at the field and Dáin at the gates. But victory aside, it was a disaster for us nonetheless. Near half my family was killed that day, long before I was born." Gimli rubbed at his ear, thinking. "He saved us. He brought us to Ered Luin. He gave us back Erebor. He gave us the chance to have our home and our pride again. A hero, as I said. Still, in my young memories I recall a rather severe, angry Dwarrow with sad eyes, and a deep voice. He was generally busy, and so when I tore about after his nephews I rarely ever saw him. He gave me my first axe, however." He smiled. "I still have it. It will go to my nephew, one day."

Legolas was looking worried.

"Oh, stop giving me that face, lad." Gimli yawned again. "Hero of my people or not, you are now my friend. He is my kinsman and he was my King, but he is not the author of my decisions. No Dwarf will lightly let another rule his fate."

"I imagine it is useless to try," Legolas said, relaxing.

"You have no idea," Thorin muttered.

Distaste welled in him as he found himself agreeing with an _Elf._ Legolas was beginning to confuse him. He showed such respect now. The two still stumbled, but it was never for long. Their initially tentative truce was developing into a deep and true friendship.

Thorin had seen another side to this Elf, and he distrusted his own conclusions. "I am watching him, Gimli," he growled suddenly. "Tell him. I remember his arrow, and the dungeon, and the sneer in his voice. I am watching him _closely._ "

Gimli lifted his head from the grass. "I will say no such thing!" he said indignantly.

Frerin muffled a laugh with his arm, and Gróin shook his head. "Perhaps not the most diplomatic o' moves," he murmured.

"A pox on diplomacy! I want this Elf to know: I am watching. If he harms Gimli or abuses his trust, I will know." He glared at Legolas, and ignored the little nagging feeling at the back of his mind that told him he was acting the fool.

"Legolas would not do that," Gimli said, and he rolled his eyes. Then he turned to the Elf and said in a conversational tone, "he is a little irate. He still does not trust you."

Legolas' eyes grew remorseful, glittering in the darkness. "You were not there, my friend," he said. "He has cause."

Thorin paused, and the words that crowded upon his tongue remained unsaid in his sudden surprise.

Gróin looked impressed. "Well," he said. " _Well_!"

"The past is a dangerous place to visit," Gimli said indistinctly, his deep voice thick with sleep. "Still, at least when you are remembering the past there is no blasted _running."_

Legolas laughed softly beneath his breath. "You complain, but you keep on. Would that we were all doughty Dwarves, that we could run all night and day with mountains upon our back!"

"Now you're just mocking me," Gimli said, and yawned. "I ache all over: a mountain on my back might put me out of my misery. Legolas, my thoughts will not stop dwelling on the poor wee Hobbits. Take my mind away from their plight and my poor legs. Tell me of your family."

Legolas was silent a while, and then he said stiffly, "Did you just not say that the past was a perilous place to visit?"

"Mahal's bloody hammer, Elf, I don't mean that! Not everything in this world must come to the wrongs we have done to each other. I mean do you have any siblings? Your mother, what is she like? What is there that whiles away the endless centuries stuck with each other for company? Do they resemble you, or are they good-looking?"

Legolas jerked back in offended indignation, his cheeks mottling. Then he blinked, and laughed softly. "Is that your revenge?"

"Let it be a lesson to you," Gimli said peacefully, his dark eyes sliding shut. "Khazâd ai-mênu."

Legolas leaned back against upon his elbows, sinuous as a cat. "I have two elder brothers," he said, tipping his head in that birdlike Elven fashion and letting his eyes rove across the shadowy sea of grass below. "The eldest is Laindawar. He is very private and very proud – very like our father. He seldom leaves Eryn Lasgalen, as he dislikes the world beyond our halls and the eaves of our forest. Even Elves of other kindreds infuriate him at times."

  
Sons of Thranduil, by [muse-ical](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Sons-of-Thranduil-495992522)  


"Sounds a pleasant fellow."

"He has the silver hair of my father's people, and blue eyes. He resents the airs that others of the Eldar give themselves, and the way they look down upon the Sindar people. We had no Elven ring, true, but in ancient days one of our queens was a Maia, and we achieved long peace and great wisdom without ever seeing the light of Aman. Our history may be one that tells of suffering more than heroism, but it is no less noble than that of the Noldor or Vanyar. We are of the Eldar, not the Avari. They are not greater than us."

"He should speak to a Dwarf. I could give him an hours-long dissertation on why that attitude sets our teeth on edge."

Legolas shook his head, his lips quirking. "I doubt that is ever likely to occur. As I said, he rarely leaves our caves and trees. He would not suffer to be parted from our people for long, and especially not to hold discourse with a Dwarf, even one as splendid as Gimli son of Glóin. The old lies still hold him in their grip, my friend, and he has listened to them far longer than I have."

Gimli wrinkled his nose. "Well, it is his loss, then."

"And I shall tell him so," Legolas said, chuckling. "My second brother, Laerophen, is more cosmopolitan. You will not be surprised to hear that he has pale hair and blue eyes."

"I am absolutely flabbergasted, lad."

Legolas smiled into the darkness. "He is a great scholar, and has pored over the works of many different races. He is usually the one my father sends upon any diplomatic excursion. It was a great surprise to me that I was given leave to go to Rivendell."

"Glad it was you," Gimli said sleepily.

"As am I." Legolas' eyes dropped to his feet for a moment, and then he resumed. "Laerophen is well-read, but he is not accepting. He is convinced that the accounts of other nations and races only serve to highlight the superiority of Elves. Our languages, our runes, our ways. The Sindar invented the Cirth runes used by the Dwarves; Sindarin is now the language spoken by near-all the Elves in Middle-Earth, and many other races besides. He generally regards other peoples as primitive and benefitting from civilised Elven contact."

"You are not exactly giving me their good points here, Legolas."

"I suppose I am not, and so the picture is not whole," Legolas said thoughtfully. "They are both proud Elves, but they are kind. Laerophen is very clever, and Laindawar is a good listener. Laerophen's wit is sharp and he can be very amusing. Laindawar cares for our people with all his heart, and would do anything for them. For all their faults, they are my brothers and I love them. They were gentle with a foolish young Elf who cared for little other than his bow and his home."

"You speak as though they are far older than you."

"Yes. They were both full-grown when I was born."

"How old are you then, Legolas? No wait, don't tell me." Gimli rubbed at his eyes and rolled over onto his side to give the Elf an amused look. "Let me guess. A million years? Two million?"

Legolas burst out laughing, and then he muffled the sound with a quick glance at the sleeping form of Aragorn. "A little less than that," he said.

"You look well for your age, then. Perhaps it should be you who calls _me_ 'lad'," Gimli said.

"Ah, but I would miss it if you stopped now," said Legolas. "Now, what else? My mother's name was Aelir. I do not remember her well, except her long golden hair."

  
Aelir, by [muse-ical](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Aelir-510198183)  


"Oh, I'm sorry," Gimli said, his face falling. "She is dead, then?"

"Dead? No!" Legolas said. "She took the ship to Eldamar long ago. I do not recall why. My father will not speak of it, and nor will Laindawar. Laerophen once told me that the slow sickness creeping over the Greenwood caused her such sorrow that she could no longer be content in Arda. My father misses her dearly, but he will not leave his kingdom and his people to the mercies of the spiders and the evil in the southern reaches of our forests."

"That's a hard rock to hew. I am sorry, Legolas."

"It is the way of things," Legolas shrugged. "Have I satisfied that insatiable curiosity? Do you sleep now?"

"Aye, I will sleep, and be glad of it," Gimli said, and he put a hand to his back and arched until it clicked audibly. "Thank you for the distraction, and the tales. Ah! But my eyes are heavy!"

"It disturbs me that you must sleep with your eyes shut," Legolas said, shaking his head. "It is so unnatural. If it were not for your snoring I would think you dead!"

"Hush your lying mouth, I do _not_ snore."

Thorin strangled the laugh in his throat.

"I will keep watch," Legolas said, and he put a hand upon Gimli's shoulder. "I do not tire in the same manner as mortals do."

"Wish I didn't," Gimli mumbled, and then he squinted up at the Elf. "Good night, Legolas."

"Good night, mellon nin. Elei velui."

Gimli pulled his Elven cloak close around himself, and then he wriggled slightly until he had found a comfortable position. Between one breath and the next, he fell into a deep slumber. The deep, slow sound of his snore began to rumble through the ground.

Legolas straightened, standing pale and tall in the moonlight. He glanced down at Gimli, and then he lifted his head and addressed the air. "You do not trust me, Thorin son of Thráin," he said clearly to the chill night, his breath steaming before him. "I learn more and more of you now, and I understand why. You do not trust easily. Nor do we. But for the sake of he who is our friend, I will try. Gimli will never be harmed by my hand, deed, or word. This I swear."

Thorin clenched his teeth, knowing the Elf could not hear his answer. "I will wait to see if your word proves true," he grated.

Legolas looked up at the sliver of moon. "We will no doubt be moving again before dawn," he said reflectively. "He would welcome your company again. He is worried for the little ones."

Frár narrowed his eyes. "For an Elf he's bloody considerate."

Thorin didn't quite know what to believe. The Elf had respected their traditions, and in a manner that gave them equal footing to his own. The Elf was careful to acknowledge the historic imbalance between them, but did not let it affect their burgeoning friendship. And yet this was still Thranduil's son: still the Elf who had sighted down his arrow at Thorin, lost and hungry, and had threatened his life with cold nonchalance.

He chewed upon his lip for a few moments, but his thoughts were sluggish with exhaustion. He let out a great breath of frustration and decided to set it aside until the morning. He looked back at his companions. "We will depart and return."

Frerin crossed his arms and gave Thorin a considering look. "You trust him?"

"No," Thorin snarled, and then he grimaced. "I do not know, nadad."

"Well, I think Gimli has the right idea," said Gróin. "I need to sleep. My legs won't carry me any further!"

* * *

Frís pulled Thorin aside after he had reported the (few) events of his watches. (How many times could a Dwarrow say the word 'run'?)

"Thorin, Ori has been through, but not Fíli and Kíli," she said. "Merry and Pippin are being carried by the orcs to Isengard, as you suspected. It seems the White Wizard has commanded that the Halflings be taken to him alive and unspoiled. He thinks they have the Ring."

"Merry and _Pippin?"_ Thorin muttered under his breath. "This is ill news. Then they are alive? Are they hurt?"

"Merry is wounded, but he will recover," she said, her eyes serious as they bored into his. "Pippin is well enough. Flói thinks he has managed to slip his bonds without the orcs noticing. It was he who cast the brooch away."

Thorin's eyebrows lifted. "Clever. Pippin surprises me."

Frís smiled crookedly. "He _is_ a Took - like your beloved."

Thorin's chin lowered. "That he is. Tooks exist to surprise me, it seems."

Frís' hand smoothed over his brow, and she pressed her head against his briefly. "Sleep, inùdoy. Rise again tomorrow."

Thorin heaved a soundless sigh, and dragged his weary feet back to his chamber. He didn't bother getting undressed or even with removing his boots, but immediately collapsed onto his pallet and dropped into slumber between one thought and the next.

He rose before the dawn and woke his brother. Nori was with them, and Fundin. Thorin found himself enying his young brother, who moved easily and without the stiffness that he carried.

"I ache all over, and I cannot believe that you do not," he muttered.

Frerin gave him an arch look. "Gamilûn Thorin."

He snorted. "Mind your manners then, youngster."

"Not sure how much use I'll be with all the running," confessed Fundin, pulling at his beard. "Not exactly my forte."

"I'll have to tell Gróin he won your wager then," said Nori slyly. Fundin straightened abruptly.

"You'll do no such thing! I'll beat that old scoundrel, you wait and see. Five hours, wasn't it?"

"Seven," Thorin corrected absently. Fundin winced.

Nori whistled. "I dunno how Gimli is doing this. Seven hours straight, Mahal _wept_."

"No, that is how long Gróin ran," Frerin said. "Gimli ran all night and day."

"I feel ill," Fundin mumbled.

"You need the exercise, yer Lordship," Nori said, and grinned. "Lead on, my King."

Once more the dawn spilled upon Arda. Legolas was standing, gazing northwards. "A red sun rises," he said as Aragorn came up to stand beside him. "Blood has been shed this night."

"Can you see them?" Aragorn said in a hushed voice. Behind them, Gimli still slumbered, his huge arms thrown wide and his head lolling to the side.

"They are far, far away," Legolas said, shaking his head. "Only an eagle could overtake them now."

"Nonetheless, we will still follow as we may," Aragorn said, and he stooped to rouse the Dwarf. "Up you get, Gimli. We must go. The scent is growing cold."

"It is still dark," Gimli grumbled, but he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Ah, perhaps not. The sun rises again, and our chase awaits! Can you see them, Legolas?"

"Aragorn has asked," Legolas answered sadly. "I fear they have passed beyond my sight."

"Where sight fails, the earth may bring us rumour," Aragorn said, and he stretched himself out upon the ground and pressed his ear to it. "The land itself must groan beneath their hated feet."

Gimli stretched, and then he pulled an extraordinary face. "I am knotted up like twine! But give me a moment to slap my legs into submission, and then we will discover what a Dwarf's ears may hear from the stone."

"Secrets again," Fundin said, and rolled his eyes to the sky.

Yet neither Aragorn nor Gimli could make sense of the rumour of the earth, and so they steeled their heavy hearts and resumed their desperate pursuit.

"Three days," Frerin said as they ran on after the Three Hunters. "Three whole days!"

"It is a feat worthy of a song or two," Thorin managed, willing his feet to keep moving.

Gimli brightened. "Ah, you are back! Good. The hours pass faster with such company."

"What was that, Gimli?" Aragorn panted without turning around.

"Nothing, he was but making an idle observation to me," said Legolas hurriedly, giving Gimli a sharp look. The Dwarf smiled gratefully.

"I was but thinking that this land reminds me of the Shire. I passed through it when I was young, and it was green and rolling too, though not nearly so wild."

Aragorn's eyes warmed. "Yes, the Shire is a green and pleasant land, as is Rohan. But the Hobbits prefer their tidy farms and their little woods. The Rohirrim are Horse-lords, and they give their hearts to their wide plains and moors, proud and rugged and untamed."

"I would give much to see trees again," Legolas said, swift and straight as a spear as he ran. "Still, the green smell that rises from the grass is better than much sleep."

"Still no sign of the Uruks?" asked Aragorn as he led them down into a shallow dell.

"They run as if the very whips of Sauron were behind them," the Elf said. "I cannot see them."

"Well, let us keep on!" Gimli said, and then he murmured, "thank you, laddie."

"You are welcome," Legolas said softly, and they ran side by side for a while, heavy boots and soft shoes striking the earth together.

The sun beat down on them, and Thorin could feel the long hours sapping his strength. Even Frerin, young and fleet as he was, was beginning to tire. "Look there!" Aragorn suddenly cried, pointing to a dark shape at the foothills of the mountains. "There is Fangorn, some ten leagues away! The orc-trail turns from the downs to the Entwash."

Legolas came to stand beside him as Gimli arrived, puffing, behind them. The Elf shaded his eyes with his long-fingered hand, and then he said, "riders! They come back along the trail towards us!"

"How many?" Gimli said, pressing his hand against his forehead.

"One hundred and five," Legolas said, his eyes narrowing. Yellow is their hair, and their leader is very tall."

Aragorn smiled. "Keen are the eyes of Elves."

"Nay! They are little more than five leagues distant."

"Shall we go on, or wait here?" Gimli said, peering up at them. "We cannot escape them in this bare land."

Aragorn slumped, his great weariness apparent. "We will wait. They come back along the orc-trail: perhaps we may get news from them."

"Or spears," Gimli grunted.

The three rested against the jagged stones that thrust out of the ground, stepping away from the top of the hill that they might not present an easy mark for an arrow against the sky. The thunder of horses' hooves grew louder, and finally the host of riders drew close. They were fair and yellow-bearded, with long spears and fierce helmets crested with horse-hair. Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed, their coats shining in the afternoon light.

"Riders of Rohan!" Aragorn cried, stepping out from their place amongst the stones. "What news from the Mark?"

In a dazzling display of horsemanship, every rider turned and encircled the three. Thorin bristled as their horses crowded close, effectively cutting off any route of escape. Their long straight spears were abruptly lowered to ring the companions in shining steel.

The rider who pressed to the front was taller than the others, and his helm was surmounted by a fierce nose-guard shaped like a horse's head. His face was grim and stern. "What business does an Elf, a Man and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?" he grated. "Speak quickly!"

Thorin glared at him.

Gimli planted his axe before his feet and squared his broad shoulders. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine," he said.

The rider dismounted, and he stalked to tower over the Dwarf, using his height to try and intimidate him. Thorin scowled. Tall folk always tried that. They never seemed to realise that an axe-stroke at the knees brought everyone to the same level. "I would cut off your head, _Dwarf,_ if it stood but a little higher from the ground," the Man sneered.

Legolas' hands moved faster than thought. "He stands not alone," he said in a cold voice. "You would die before your stroke fell."

Thorin's hand shot out, and he gripped Frerin's arm as his tired legs trembled. "Did I just hear..." he said, amazed and dumbfounded. His tongue felt thick and numb within his mouth.

"The Elf defends Gimli," Fundin whispered.

"Legolas would die the minute the arrow left his hands," Nori said, disbelieving. "Why in Durin's name would he _do_ that?"

"Thorin, you're hurting me," Frerin said, prying at Thorin's hand. He consciously relaxed his grip but he did not remove it. His brother's arm was the only thing keeping him grounded and not spiralling into utter shock.

"He defends Gimli," he said. "He _defends_ Gimli. I do not know the world any more. I do not know what is real!"

Aragorn stepped forward and carefully gestured for Legolas to lower his bow. He inclined his head to the tall Rider. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he said, and through his stupor Thorin was able to muster a flicker of approval at the Man choosing to use his name and not an alias. "This is Gimli son of Glóin, and Legolas of the woodland realm. We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden your King."

The rider looked unhappy and angry for a moment before the expression was quickly hidden. "Théoden no longer recognises friend from foe. Not even his own kin. I am Éomer, son of Éomund, of the House of Éorl," he said, and removed his helm. A strong-featured face with a wide brow, dark eyes and yellow hair was revealed. Thorin glowered, instantly taking a dislike to him. Horse-lord or no, this Man had threatened _his star._

"Whence have you come?" said Éomer, still regarding them with some suspicion. "I thought you orcs at first, though your cloaks keep you strangely hidden. Are you Elvish folk?"

"Only one of us is an Elf, as you can see," Aragorn replied. "But we have passed through Lothlórien in our long journey, and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us."

The Rider's face was filled with a strange wonder, though his eyes hardened. "Then there is a Lady of the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!" he said. "Few escape her snares, they say. But if you have her favour then perhaps you yourselves are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe." His hand tightened about his spear.

"You speak evil of that which is fair beyond your understanding, and only little wit can excuse you," Gimli growled, his axe leaping into his hand.

"Gimli," Aragorn said wearily. "He only speaks as you yourself have done."

"I will hear no foul word of the Lady Galadriel," Gimli muttered, and then he glared up at the Horse-Lord. "Perhaps later, I will find the time to instruct you in the proper way to speak of a gentle Lady."

"Am I to learn courtesy at the loving strokes of a Dwarf's axe?" Éomer said, and snorted. "These are strange times, and you are strange folk indeed."

"You would not survive the lesson," Thorin promised him, glaring at the Man.

"Tell us, what is it that troubles the Sons of Éorl? What shadow lies upon Théoden-King?" said Aragorn, subtly moving before Gimli and blocking Éomer's view of his scowl.

Éomer's mouth was a thin line. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the King and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those that are loyal to Rohan... and for that, we are banished."

"That's a bit on the rough side," said Nori.

"The white wizard is cunning," said Éomer, and long-held anger coloured his voice. "He walks here and there, they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets!"

Aragorn was calm as he said, "we are not spies. We track a party of Uruk-Hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive."

"The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night."

"Who was on watch?" Thorin snapped.

"I think Ori finished at midnight," said Nori. "Dunno who took over."

Gimli could apparently contain himself no further, and burst out, "but there were two Hobbits with them! Did you see two Hobbits?"

"They would be small, only children to your eyes," Aragorn explained. Gimli leaned forward, his eyes pleading. Legolas laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

Éomer shook his head again and said, "We left none alive." Turning to the northwest where the glowering shadow of Fangorn loomed, he pointed out a thin and rising column of smoke. "We piled the carcasses and burned them."

Gimli's eyes widened, and his breath caught. "Dead?" he faltered.

Éomer pressed his lips together, and then he turned away. "I am sorry."

"You...!" Thorin snarled, and it was Frerin's turn to grip his arm tightly. "Nekhushel! _Dead_! No, no – First Gandalf, then Boromir, and now the Hobbits, it cannot be!"

"Hold strong, nadadel," Frerin whispered harshly in his ear. "They may have escaped. Remember, Pippin may have slipped his bonds."

Pippin. Merry. Bilbo's young cousins. More of Bilbo's family that Thorin had failed to protect. He slumped and bowed his head.

Éomer whistled, and two fine horses answered, a grey and a chestnut. "This is Arod, and this is Hasufel," said the Man. "May they bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell."

Thorin fumed as the Man turned and remounted his horse, setting his fierce helm back upon his head. Taking his reins, he said, "Look for your friends. But do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands." Urging his horse into a canter and raising his voice, he called, "we ride North!"

With deft and skilful handling, the tight circle of horsemen parted and circled to follow their tall leader. Aragorn watched them go, his eyes forlorn.

Gimli removed his helm and pressed it against his chest, his eyes squeezing shut. "We have run all this way," he said bitterly.

"Pippin," Thorin said, and then he licked his dry lips. "My star, Pippin may still be alive, at least. There is yet hope."

Gimli nodded imperceptibly, before he looked up at the grey horse, his face scrunching in distaste. "First boats, and now beasties. They will have me attempt to fly next!"

"I don't recommend it," Nori muttered. "Eagles are unsociable, t' say the least."

"You do not ride then, Gimli?" asked Aragorn as he mounted the chestnut, bringing its head around and stroking the braided mane.

"No indeed! Ponies I can handle, but whoever heard of a horse being given to a Dwarf? I would sooner walk."

"But you must ride now, or you will hinder us," said Aragorn.

"Come, Gimli, you can ride behind me," said Legolas, already astride the grey after a few soft Elvish words in its ear. "That way you will not need to be troubled by a horse at all."

Gimli looked doubtful, but he allowed himself to be pulled up by the hand. There he sat, clinging gingerly to the Elf, not much more at ease than Sam Gamgee in a boat.

"We will not be able to keep the pace," said Thorin, his heart sinking as he watched the Man and the Elf wheel their horses around to the north, pointing towards the dark crouching gloom of Fangorn and the distant and ominous smoke. Gimli's great hands clutched immediately at Legolas' waist as the horse turned, and he swore under his breath in Khuzdul.

"If this great long-legged thing should be my ruin, my Lord," he muttered, "I wish it to be known that I will everything to my sister and that my axes should go to Gimizh."

"Dramatic," Frerin sniggered.

"Ah!" Gimli yelped as Arod leapt into a canter at a word from Legolas, and then the two horses were flowing over the great green rolling moors, their tails streaming behind them.

Thorin followed them with his eyes for a moment, his ribcage tight around his heart. "It will not be long before they reach the pyre. Swift are the horses of Rohan."

"We have some time," said Fundin, frowning.

"Let us see what news there is of Merry and Pippin," sighed Thorin. "Perhaps there will be something of use to tell Gimli."

"We can but hope," said Frerin.

"Yes, hope is all we've got," Nori muttered.

* * *

"Well, my son? Are you ready?"

The Dwarf remained silent, watching the shining glowing thing upon his Maker's anvil. "One more time."

"Once more," Mahal agreed, and gently touched his face. "If the world makes it through this darkness, your light will be needed to bring hope once again."

The Dwarf was motionless for another moment, and then he looked up. His ancient eyes were filled with weariness and pain, but his mouth was set in a determined line. "If."

Mahal smiled, and its warmth bathed the Dwarrow's face like a beam of sunlight or the glow from a well-fed forge. "Every shadow is but a passing thing. Every night must give way to morning. No matter how this ends, you will see it begin anew."

The Dwarf sighed, and then he leaned against the great worn fingers of his mighty maker. "I am tired, father."

"I know. And this is the final time, my son. This will be the ultimate burst of glory before our children dwindle and Men come into their own at long last. Seven is an auspicious number, do you not agree?"

He smiled faintly. "Aye, that it is."

"And are you sure? I will not force you."

The Dwarf sighed again and bowed his head. "I will be pleased to rest at last. Still, the great work continues. I am needed. I am ready."

"Your bravery does you credit, my beloved son."

"Well, I like them," said the Dwarf, shrugging. "He is a careful and diffident Dwarrow, despite his temper, and he will give her stability and acceptance. She is fiery and determined and will give him much-needed confidence. They will make fine parents."

"That they will." Mahal laid his hand upon the Dwarf's brow in a gentle benediction, and he began to fade.

"I just hope that teething doesn't hurt quite so damned much this time around," he grumbled as his outline wavered, shifting in the warm air of the forge like smoke. "It's not dignified. An' the less said about toilet-training the better."

Mahal's laugh was soft as distant thunder. "You will endure, as you always do. I am proud of you, Durin."

"Thank you, father," said the ghostly figure, barely more than a suggestion hanging in the gloom.

...

* * *

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Gwaem – Let's go  
> Mellon nin – my friend.  
> Laerophen – Tree Song  
> Laindawar – Free Forest  
> Aelir - Birdsong  
> Elei velui – sweet dreams  
> Losto vae – sleep well
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu – May Mahal's hammer shield you  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Idmi – welcome  
> Gamil(ûn) – old (man, embodies this), thus, _Gamilûn Thorin = Old Thorin._  
>  Zabadâl belkul – Mighty leader  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother
> 
> Tolkien never created a family tree for the House of Oropher. I have here given him two generations.
> 
> The Eldar/The Avari - The Eldar are those Elves who in the dawn of time agreed to follow the Valar to Aman. The Avari ("Unwilling") stayed behind. The Sindar are the descendents of the tribe (the Teleri) who agreed to go on the Great Journey, but did not complete it.
> 
> The Vanyar - The first clan of the Elves, also known as Fair Elves. These Elves have never left the light of Aman.
> 
> The Noldor - The second clan of the Elves. They scorned the Sindar somewhat. These Elves went to Aman and then returned to Middle Earth. They were great builders and creators, but also the source of much sorrow in the First Age.
> 
> Sindarin - This language became the lingua franca of Middle-Earth. This was following the edict of Elu Thingol of the hidden realm of Doriath never to hear the Noldorin dialect of Quenya spoken in his realm, ever again.
> 
> Cirth - these runes were invented by the Sinda minstrel Daeron of Doriath, and adopted by the Dwarves. The straight lines were more suited to carving than the curves of the tengwar.
> 
> Melian the Maia was the wife of Elu Thingol. A member of the 'angelic' class of beings, she had been of the Maiar who followed Vána and Estë, and lived in Lórien tending the trees that grew in the Gardens of Irmo in Valinor. She encountered the King of the Sindar, Elu Thingol, in the forest of Nan Elmoth. There she fell in love, and ruled by his side in the kingdom of Doriath. She was the mother of Lúthien Tinúviel.
> 
> _Some lines taken from the chapter, "The Riders of Rohan," and some from the film._
> 
>  ...
> 
>   _I had some time off work. I spent it writing :D_
> 
> _I am so, so SO overwhelmed by the response to this. Thank you so much for reading and kudos-ing and reviewing...! Thank you all so very much!_


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So much has happened, you will not believe how **epic** all this is. Seriously. I mean it. I am the luckiest l'il potato in town and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise. Okay, these beginning notes might get a bit lengthy, bear with me, it's worth it_
> 
>  
> 
>  _[Jeza-red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com) has drawn SO MUCH AMAZINGNESS. She has drawn [Orla, our stern Blacklock warrior](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/61627713972/orla-once-more-d-this-time-more-than-just-a)_ \- in full armour _, Thorin's persnickety and disapprovng grandmother, the regal[Hrera, Queen Under the Mountain](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/61558469627/hrera-daughter-of-frera-thorins-grandma-of) (you will not believe the detail on this), and a freaking adorable picture of [Thorin and Frerin being bros and goofing around](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/61635656107/for-magnificent-determamfidd-for-being-magnificent). _
> 
> _AFFGLJJGD EDIT BECAUSE AUGH: Jeza just drew another one! It is[Frerin and Fili!](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/62126059524/how-about-you-call-me-uncle-how-about-little) IT. IS. ADORABLE. ~~also Jeza is a wizard okay~~_
> 
> _To thank wonderful Jeza for ALL THIS AMAZING I wrote another little something (warning - it's NSFW, because sexytimes. So there's that) :[Shared Silence](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/61837808753/sansukh-side-fic-shared-silence)_
> 
>  _Next! Awesome[Notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) has created the adorable apocalypse in the shape of [four mischievous Dwarflings!](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/61651735002/the-trouble-troupe) Gimizh, Wee Thorin, Balin and Frerin _ LIVE _and I want to squish their adorable little dwarfy faces SERIOUSLY GO NOW NOW NOW. She has also drawn the crossover you never knew you wanted:[The Hobbit + The Muppets](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/61782391751/statloin-and-baldorf). Statloin and Baldorf. Yes. You read that correctly. XD_  
>  ~~I still think Thorin is Miss Piggy. I mean, he's got the hair~~
> 
> _The phenomenal and utterly lovely[you-comfort-me](http://you-comfort-me.tumblr.com) has done a beautiful, beautiful thing! For anyone who has begun to get a bit confused by all the who is related to where and how and why? [Here it is, the extended Durin Family tree, Sansûkh-edition!](http://you-comfort-me.tumblr.com/post/62032685050/close-up) It is glorious. I am thinking of making a poster of it, it is so lovely. _
> 
> _Finally, the fantastic[schemeforprofit](http://schemeforprofit.tumblr.com) has drawn our archer Dwarrowdam, the firecracker known as [Bomfris!](http://schemeforprofit.tumblr.com/post/61501344766/i-did-doodles-of-bomfris) Just LOOK at that Ur family hair! Damn, Bombur's gotta be proud of his girl. _
> 
>    
>  _(I TOLD YOU IT WAS EPIC)_
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Meet a Dwarrowdam:**  
>  __  
> Dwerís child of Nerís
> 
> A reclusive, reticent and slightly obsessive Dwarrow, Dwerís was the daughter of Nerís, a scribe and poet, and Nár, the great friend and counsellor of Thrór King Under the Mountain. She was a huge-shouldered nonbinary Dwarrow who went by she/her pronouns. She was a mediocre smith but naturally talented with a sword, and through her skill and dedication she soon rose through the ranks in the Ereborean Army. She was justifiably proud of her skills, and practised approximately five hours every day with a variety of weapons. It soon became rumoured that Dwerís was unbeatable.
> 
> Challengers appeared, and Dwerís was obliged to see each of them beaten before she could return to her solitude and her beloved training. She had defeated ninety-nine opponents when a comfortable young nobleman, drunk and staggering, was pushed into the ring by his friends. Disgusted, Dwerís left. The noble later sought Dwerís out to apologise for his appalling state and for his friends' actions, and Dwerís was struck by his sincerity and his way with words. She offered to train him, and so Dwerís was introduced to her future husband, Fundin son of Farin. She often said later that she had won her hundredth bout as well.
> 
> Dwerís was killed beside her husband at the battle of Azanulbizar, leaving behind her two sons Balin and Dwalin.

The stars released him back into the cool grey grandeur of the world of the dead. Thorin rubbed at his eyes and then he stood stiffly from his bench. The pain in his legs had muted to a dull throb. Around him, his companions came to awareness, most groaning at their aching limbs and blinking in the darkness, dramatic after the blinding purity of Gimlîn-zâram.

Thorin tipped his neck to stretch it, and then peered at the benches surrounding the glassy, utterly-smooth pool. There was Lóni, seated and staring at the water, as motionless as a statue - ah, so it was he who watched for the youngest Hobbits. Not far from Lóni sat Kíli, who was frowning despite the blankness of his eyes. Perhaps some calamity had befallen Frodo and Sam. Thorin fervently hoped not, though the way their luck had turned these last few days he could not exactly rule it out.

Frerin touched his sleeve. "Nadad, you need to speak to Mum," he said softly. Thorin nodded after a last look at Kíli, and then he turned and forced his sore legs to take him away from the Chamber.

Frís looked weary. "Your chase is over then?" she said, and Thorin lifted a hand and rocked it side to side.

"I cannot say," he said. "It depends upon what they will find. What news from the others?"

"Balin reported," she said, turning to a slip of paper covered in Balin's firm, confident runes. "In Dale, King Brand is not the one who stalls us. Rather, it is his parliament. They argue and bicker, trying to gain the upper hand politically. King Brand is constrained by custom and needs the parliament to ratify any decision to go to war, and with such petty power-struggles in his court he cannot pledge himself to Erebor's cause."

Thorin snorted. "Men, tcch. What else?"

"Hold your temper," she said, eyeing him sternly.

"Such a warning does not exactly fill me with confidence, 'amad," he said wearily. "I will endeavour to keep it in check. What is it?"

"Ori has reported," she said, and then she sighed deeply. "Merry and Pippin were alive, at least they were when he last saw them. There was a skirmish with horsemen of some sort-"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted, and the confusion he had felt at Eomer's threat and Legolas' response washed over him again. He shook his head free of his thoughts and refocused. "What has happened?"

"He lost them," she said, and sat down with a short huff of frustration. "Ori could not find them in the chaos and the darkness and the press of orcs and horses. He searched and searched until it was nearing midnight, but the Hobbits are nowhere to be found. Now Lóni tries to seek them out, though it is nearing eight hours since he began the hunt."

"Does Gimlîn-zâram not place them close to the Hobbits when they enter?" Thorin frowned, and then he rubbed at his temples. His temper was indeed rising, but it was smothered under the heaviness of his great exhaustion.

"You know as well as I do that it is very difficult to steer the pool," she said.

"I do not have that trouble any more, though I did at first," said Thorin. "I am mostly taken where I wish."

"You usually have a fair idea of _where_ that is, however," she said dryly. "Ori believes they ran into Fangorn Forest. Even an Elf could not find them in there."

Thorin grimaced. "There are fell tales of that forest."

She nodded, and then she rested her head upon her hand. "That is all I have for you, inùdoy. I am sorry it is not more."

"It is enough," he said heavily, and he kissed her head. "I will play your customary part now, and tell you to sleep. You look tired."

"I am," she said, and then she smiled up at him. "How unusual. Still, I could grow to like it."

He folded his arms and gave her a mock-glare that quickly dissolved into a groan. "Disrespect from my own mother – but ah, I ache all over. I will take my own advice."

"Also unusual. I am beginning to wonder if you are truly my stubborn son," she said, smiling as he pulled her to her feet. "Ori will have the new schedule up tomorrow."

"Good," he said as they began to make their way towards their rooms. Then he hesitated. "Amad, the Elf – he defended Gimli."

"Really?" Her brows shot up. "Well. Against whom?"

"A Man of Rohan, a Horse-Lord. I cannot understand. He is Thranduil's son, an Elf of Mirkwood. He has said himself that he was raised to hate us, and yet he drew his bow and told the Man of Rohan..."

"Thorin," she interrupted him gently, "calm down. You are confused and tired. The Elf will wait until you have rested."

He smiled despite himself, a small tilt of the lips. "Now that is more along the lines of our customary roles. I knew it couldn't last."

She laughed softly. "For how long will you give yourself a respite?"

"Not long. They will arrive at the edge of Fangorn soon, and I must be there to give Gimli this small news of Pippin. They are on horseback: fitting, I suppose, as they are in Rohan. I expect I have no more than a couple of hours."

"Gimli must be thrilled at that."

"Oh yes," Thorin said, snorting softly. "He is as happy as a Stiffbeard in a silver mine. Horses are not precisely his transport of choice, it seems. He sits like a sack of grain and clings to the Elf with all his might – I half-expected him to break bones with those great hands of his."

She smiled. "Then they ride together?"

"They do." Thorin repressed the scowl that threatened to cross his face. He would have time to consider the Elf's baffling behaviour later, when he was more alert.

She hummed thoughtfully, and then looked up at him, serious once more. "Do not overtax yourself again, my dear."

"I do not intend to." He dropped his eyes for a moment, before taking a breath and meeting hers once more. "Here is my chamber, and I will rest for a short while."

She sighed in defeat, and kissed his cheek. "I will send someone to wake you."

He pressed his head against hers briefly, before he left her. His bed was unaired and rumpled, but he did not care in the slightest as he slowly pulled off his boots, and fell back onto his pillow. He was asleep in seconds.

* * *

"Thorin, wake up."

He groaned and swiped a hand at the annoying voice. A soft chuckle greeted this.

"You'll have to try harder than that."

"Víli?" Thorin blinked awake, his eyes gummy and his head pounding. That had not been enough sleep to revitalise his aching muscles. "How is Erebor?"

"Tense," Víli said with a wry shrug. "The Elves keep to their rooms, the Stonehelm hovers like a worried crow and Bomfrís argues with both him and that son of Thranduil constantly. They held an archery competition, and she lost. She isn't taking it very gracefully."

Thorin grunted, struggling out of his tangled bedclothes. "And Dís?"

Víli's eyes softened. His voice was wistful as he said, "She's coping well enough with the internal bickering and the increased pressure, though she's slowing down a bit. She hides it well."

Thorin looked up at his brother-in-law thoughtfully for a moment. "She always did."

His sister and her One had shared a strong bond, and it did not surprise Thorin in the least that after so many years Víli still yearned for his mithril-voiced, stern-faced wife. He had been the only one to make her laugh after the double tragedy of Erebor and Azanulbizar. She had given up her place in the succession for him: a lowborn stonemason of no family. Only twenty years had they spent together. Only twenty years – and then a warg had taken Víli. A mere lone scout, ranging over the Blue Mountains, but it had killed Dís' laughter.

Víli sighed soundlessly. "I'll go back tomorrow, and hopefully there will be more to report. Thrór was there: he undoubtedly will have understood more of all that political rubbish. I never did really comprehend the ramifications of it all."

"I envy that. When I was young I often wished I had never been born to politics," Thorin said, and put a hand on Víli's shoulder as he stood stiffly. His sore muscles shrieked at him. "Ah!"

"I heard about all the running," Víli said, and he grinned as he brought up a hand to support Thorin's back. "You should see Gróin and Fundin. They're practically moaning in concert."

"Serves them right for trying to outdo each other," Thorin grunted, and he made his way with aching legs to his table, where a flask of hot wine and a hunk of bread sat, oil and spices ready beside it.

"Some brothers never change," Víli said, and he shook his head in amusement.

"Speaking of brothers, how is Fíli? I did not see him in the Chamber of Sansûkhul, but Kíli is there still."

"He's asleep. He followed Frodo and Sam through the Emyn Muil for nearly the whole day yesterday, and I quote, 'at least Sam has rope'!"

Thorin smiled, tearing off a bite of his bread. "Kíli is a better climber than Fíli."

"He is," agreed Víli, leaning against the table. "Fíli is a better swimmer, though."

"Though Kíli tries to make up for that with sheer enthusiasm," Thorin murmured, and both Dwarrows laughed.

"I must return to Gimli now," Thorin said, and he yawned around the words. "Do you rest?"

"No, not yet." Víli cocked his head. "Back so soon? I don't want to imply, but – Thorin, are you pushing too hard again?"

Thorin's smile dropped away. "I will not make that mistake a second time," he said curtly. "I may not be able to halt my watch as often as I should, but neither do I go beyond my own strength. These are difficult days. I do not forget that I will be needed, yet I cannot be so selfish as to incapacitate myself when events move so swiftly and dramatically. It is simply," and he winced, "the damnable running that has done this!"

"Now, now, calm down," Víli said, holding his hands up. "Just a question. I only didn't want the boys to get so worried about you again."

Thorin swallowed and turned back to the rudimentary meal. "Indeed so," he muttered. "I do not wish to see that either. My undayûy deserve better than that from me."

Víli folded his arms. "Here, none o' that," he said, frowning. It looked quite unnatural on his impish face. "They have had the best of you, and so I won't hear you speaking that way of yourself. Thorin, you've always had their loyalty and love, and nothing will change that, nothing. You worry over them all the time – do you think they don't do the same for you? Care does not only go one way, you noble old thing. Learn to live with it."

Thorin paused, and then he looked up, a smile tugging at his lips once more. "I am being schooled constantly, it seems," he said dryly. "And from sources I do not expect."

Víli shrugged again, his myriad blond braids bouncing. "It's my blinding beauty, I expect. Nobody can ever quite believe that it's paired with such astounding wisdom."

A laugh escaped him again, and Thorin shook his head, before rubbing his sore eyes and gulping down a few sips of the wine. It stung at the back of his throat, and he vaguely wondered which herbs Óin had added to it to give him energy.

"All right," he said, wiping off his mouth and stepping into his boots (clumsily – Mahal, but his legs were sore!). "I will be no more than a few hours. I do not have longer in me today."

"If you're this bad, I can't imagine how Gimli is faring," Víli said, holding open the door.

"Gimli is sixty years younger than I am," he growled. "And before you make a ridiculous quip, Frerin already did so yesterday."

"Damn, he beat me to it," Víli said, grinning his mischievous grin, the very image of the one Kíli had inherited. "Go on then, revered elder."

"I _will_ hurt you."

"If you can catch me," Víli said, and he chuckled all the way to the main corridors, where they parted.

No-one was with Thorin so soon after their last shift, and he sat at his bench before Gimlîn-zâram feeling oddly bereft. He had become used to company on his jaunts to Middle-Earth.

He briskly threw the thought away, and concentrated on Gimli. He would feel less alone with his star.

He groaned as the light surrounded him, warming his aching body and soothing his confused mind. Grass beneath his feet brought him back to himself, and he straightened, blinking away the last vestiges of the starry radiance and his own weariness.

The low crouching shadow of the Forest now glowered very near. The three hunters were fossicking through a great smoking pile of corpses, stinking and rancid in the daylight. The air smelled of burnt flesh and the coppery tang of blood. Memories of the horrible days following Azanulbizar abruptly clamoured for Thorin's attention. He gritted his teeth against them and firmly pushed them aside. Old griefs were not important here.

"Gimli," he said, and his star's furrowed brow relaxed a little.

"You join us at a very unhappy moment, Lord," he said in a low voice, his gauntleted hands busy in the charred remains. "We may have a sorrowful ending to our chase."

"Have you found anything, Gimli?" said the Elf, his face full of disgust at the task they found themselves performing. His hands were bare, of course, and Thorin's own nose wrinkled involuntarily. Neither Aragorn nor Legolas had any gloves at all. No wonder they were leaving the greater portion of this ghastly undertaking to the Dwarf.

"No," Gimli said, louder than before, his hands lifting a thick leg aside. Then he breathed in horror, "Wait. Wait – oh no. Oh, nekhushel!"

"What is it?" Aragorn said, standing.

"It's one of their wee belts," Gimli said, rubbing away the soot and grime from the carefully wound leather twisted into Elvish patterns.

Legolas' face drained of all colour, and he bowed his head. "Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath..." he said under his breath, and Thorin wondered what in Durin's name all those liquid syllables even _meant._

"Gimli, no," he began, but he was interrupted by a great cry of rage. He whirled to see Aragorn aim a great kick at a fallen Uruk helmet, his cheeks blotched with fury. Then the Man fell to his knees and sank into silence, his shoulders slumped and his hair covering his face.

"We failed them," Gimli said, his deep voice rough. He ran his thumb along the small Elvish belt once more and his eyes squeezed shut.

"I cannot bear to see you mourn yet again, Gimli," said Thorin, low and fervent. "No, you should not mourn another, so soon after the last! My star, they may be alive – listen to me! Gimli! Listen, nidoyel!"

Gimli did not answer, clutching the scrap of leather to his chest.

Aragorn gave a dusty sigh as his head lifted a little. "A Hobbit lay here," he murmured, his eyes hopeless. His fingers stroked over a narrow depression in the blood-spattered grass. "And the other – here."

"They are lost, but hope remains!" Thorin shouted, before he tipped his head back in frustration. "Gimli, listen, _listen to me_ – ah, Glóin's son, you are as deaf as your uncle ever was!"

"They crawled," Aragorn continued in a heavy voice, his hand moving across the churned ground. Divots of grass thrown by the hooves of horses lay all around, and Thorin gave the markings a sceptical look.

"How in Mahal's name can anyone read that?" he said in rising aggravation, before turning to Gimli. "Hear me, nidoyel! Pippin did not have his hands tied. He had managed to free himself – there is still a chance that..."

"Their hands were bound," Aragorn said, and Thorin scowled over his shoulder.

"I am still _talking – "_

"Their bonds were cut," Aragorn said, his tone quickening as he moved over the ground, his coat flaring behind him. He indicated a long blade half-hidden in the grass. Scraps of rope lay about it.

Thorin strangled his roar of frustration. He was far, far too tired for this. "If you would just -"

"They ran over here," Aragorn said, and the note of excitement in his voice was plain to hear. "They were followed; the tracks lead away from the battle..."

All three hunters slowly raised their heads to gaze at the solid, sprawling wall of creeping green that crouched before them.

"...into Fangorn Forest," Aragorn finished in a murmur.

"Fangorn," Gimli muttered. "What madness drove them in there?"

"A battle, or have you no wits left in that red head of yours?" Thorin snapped, and then he cursed his tongue. Frerin had warned him that he grew cruel when he was worried.

"Wit enough to ignore that comment," Gimli snapped back just as sharply. Thorin grimaced.

"Birashagimi, inùdoy kurdulu," he said, and rubbed at his slack face.

Gimli's face smoothed out and he inclined his head in acceptance. "And to you, my Lord," he said, before glancing up at the Elf. "Well, Legolas, you did say you would give much to see trees again."

Legolas' eyes glittered. "This is not precisely what I meant."

"We are caught in a fine net," Aragorn said. "We were warned against Fangorn, but now our path leads directly under its eaves. Do we go on?"

"Whether we do or not, we should picket the horses," Legolas said, turning to where they stood and grazed beyond the pyre. Yet even as he did so, they neighed loudly and reared as though spooked. Legolas said a quick soft word in Elvish, but the horses were already galloping away, their hooves further churning the battle-scarred ground.

Gimli stared after them and then he shrugged, entirely unconcerned. "Oh well."

"What happened?" Legolas said, baffled. "All was calm, and then they bolted."

"Were they frightened by the forest, do you suppose?" asked Aragorn.

"It'd frighten any beast with half a brain," Gimli muttered.

"No," said Legolas, his fair brows drawing together. "I heard them clearly. They spoke as horses will when they meet a friend that they have long missed."

"No matter," said Gimli, a trifle more cheerfully. "We began this journey on our feet, and those we still have."

Legolas' mouth twitched. "Did you not enjoy your ride, mellon nin?"

"It was... indescribable, thank you kindly," Gimli retorted lightly. "Well? Do we follow them?"

"We will find Merry and Pippin," Aragorn said, nodding and glaring at the sullen forest before them. Then he plunged into the dark wood followed closely by Legolas, and Gimli steeled himself as he made his way after his companions.

"It cannot possibly be as darksome as Mirkwood," Thorin told him. "Strength, my son."

"Glad the Elf didn't hear you say that," Gimli said, a humorous glint in his eye. Then he looked up at the close, clinging branches with their trailing vines. "I feel the air is stuffy. It is lighter than Mirkwood, but it is musty and shabby."

"It is old," said Legolas from his place upon a gnarled old tree root. He had paused to lift his head up, his eyes distant. "Very old."

Gimli gave him a dubious look, pushing his helm back upon his straight Durin brow with his thumb.

Legolas blinked out of his strange reverie, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he said, "So old that I almost feel young again, as I have not felt since I journeyed with you children."

Gimli snorted. "Three million years, wasn't it?"

Legolas laughed softly, before looking back up at the close, grasping branches. "There is no malice here, but there is watchfulness and anger."

"Well, it has no cause to be angry with me. I have done the forest no harm."

"Yet harm has been done," Legolas said in a faraway voice, and his hand lingered on a twisted trunk, stroking gently. "There is something happening, or about to happen. Can you not feel the tenseness? It takes my breath."

Gimli waited for the space of a moment, and then he shook his head. "Can't feel anything but the complaining of my backside, laddie. Horses and Dwarves do not agree at _all_."

Thorin chuckled despite himself.

"So old," Legolas said, still in that soft, distant voice, fingers caressing the bark. "And full of memory. I could have been happy here, if I had come in days of peace."

Gimli snorted again. "I dare say you could. You are a Wood-elf, anyway, though Elves of any kind are strange folk. Yet you comfort me. Where you go, I will go."

Thorin's sudden intake of breath felt very loud in the close, stilfing silence of Fangorn.

"But," said Gimli staunchly, setting his helm back more firmly on his head, "keep your bow to hand, and I will keep my axe loose in my belt. Not for use on trees!" he added hastily, before he ducked his head and began to pick his way after Aragorn. His heavy boots were very loud against the leaf litter that covered the ground and piled in drifts against the trees, wet and mulchy.

"I am glad I bring you comfort," Legolas said softly to himself, and he touched the wrinkled bark of the gnarled tree once more, lost in thought. Then the Elf turned and sprang lightly after the broad, low shape of the Dwarf, almost lost in the gloom of the trees.

Thorin stood stock-still for the space of three breaths, trying to understand what had just happened. Yet it eluded him, no matter how he wracked his tired mind for answers. In the end he made a frustrated noise under his breath and stalked after them. The feeling that he had missed something important hung over him like smoke. "Elves!" he snarled in aggravation. "Why must you be so confusing – and Gimli, why must _you_ retreat into obscurity time and again! Why can no-one in the living world speak _plainly!"_

"Here!" Aragorn called from somewhere to his right, and Thorin swerved automatically, still lost in exasperation. He nearly ran directly through Legolas as he entered a small clearing where a trickling book crossed over the roots of the trees, lined with grasses and mud. "I have found a clear sign!"

"Then they live?" Thorin said immediately, all his irritation forgotten in a sudden surge of hope. Perhaps he had not failed Bilbo: perhaps his Hobbit's cheerful young cousins were close, and well.

"Look," Aragorn said, pointing to the ground. "A footprint! Pippin's, I would think, as Merry is the older of the two and has the larger feet. Still, there is no trail leading away that my skill can find. It is as though they were plucked up into the air by some great hand."

"Let's hope not," Gimli said, and he glanced up at the trees around them.

* * *

"Well," said Flói, and he gulped noisily. "We found the Hobbits."

"Ori?" faltered Lóni.

"Yes?" said Ori, just as nervous.

"You're very well-read, aren't you?"

"Uh. I suppose? B-Balin has a far more classical education."

"I don't suppose..."

Ori squeaked.

"Thorin isn't going to like this," said Flói, shaking his head so fast it threatened to tear his braids off.

"Ori, what in Durin's name _is that thing?"_ hissed Lóni.

"I... I..." Ori swallowed and tried to pull himself together. "I think it's an Ent."

Flói looked confused and terrified. Mostly terrified. "What's a Nent?"

"No," said Ori, wringing his hands. "Ent. An. Ent. I think I read. Um. They were t-tree-shepherds of sorts. Trolls were made from them."

"Oh," said Lóni, and he stared up at the thing. And up. And _up._ "B-Big, isn't it?"

"The Hobbits are riding it," Flói moaned. "Oh, Thorin really isn't going to like this."

Ori thought of the thousands of broken branches and fires (and so on) he had been either responsible for, or a beneficiary of. "I hope they don't hold grudges," he mumbled.

* * *

The darkness was soothing, and Thorin found himself dozing as he walked behind his star. Gimli never faltered, though the pale cast of his face showed how out of place he felt. Dark rings lay beneath his eyes, and sorrow still lay upon his brow. His champion had been through much in the past week, and most of it bad.

"Khathuzhâl, zu," Thorin murmured, and if _he_ was exhausted he could not imagine how these three kept going. The Man did not have the advantages of the Elf or Dwarf, and Gimli himself was wearing a full brigandine and carrying his father's heavy axes. All three wore their packs upon their back, though they had been dramatically lightened when they had begun their chase. Everything save their food had been left behind at the fords of Sarn Gebir. "Balakhûn, Gimli."

Gimli's lips turned up a little beneath his beard. "Thank you, great Lord, though I do not feel as though I have done much good, for all my – wait, did you see that?" he broke off, staring into the darkness.

Thorin snapped out of his bemused, half-awake thoughts, and looked up. Gimli's hand hovered over his axe, and his eyes were hard and narrowed as he gazed through the gloom of the trees.

"See what?" Legolas said, swinging down from a branch.

"There!" Gimli gestured. "A flash of white! It was smothered in some old dirty robe, but the outer covering parted briefly and I caught it."

"An old man, cloaked and hooded in white," said Aragorn through gritted teeth.

"Saruman," breathed Thorin, turning back to the trees. A shape moved amongst them, and he could see the figure Gimli spoke of. As the old man walked, a blindingly white garment did indeed flash underneath the faded wrapping.

"He comes this way," said Gimli.

"I see him," Legolas said, his face expressionless once more, blank and calm before this new danger. "Can we be sure it is him?"

"Who else could it be?" Gimli grated.

Aragorn stood and gave the darkness a determined stare. "We cannot attack an unarmed opponent."

"But it could be Saruman!" said Gimli, and with a practised yank he pulled the spinning axe from his belt and gave it a flick or two, loosening his wrist. "It's drawing nearer! Legolas, your bow – bend it! Get ready!"

Thorin took a few steps forward, frowning. Aragorn curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his face tense and ready. "Do not let him speak, or put a spell on us," he murmured.

Legolas drew an arrow and fitted it to his bow with one smooth movement, but he held the shot. "I cannot shoot an old, unarmed man," he said in a whisper. "We cannot know whether it is Saruman or simply another traveller."

"In this part of the world? Clad in _white_?" Thorin snapped. "Are you mad?"

"Why are you waiting?" Gimli said urgently. "What is the matter with you?"

Cursing, Thorin resolved to curb his tongue. He had forgotten that Gimli was perceptive enough to sense his anger.

"He draws closer," Legolas said softly, and he raised the bow to his eyes, sighting along the arrow. "He comes to us."

"Legolas, now!" Aragorn shouted, and they whirled to the attack. Gimli's axe deflected from a great white blast, sending it hurtling into the soft, musty sod. Legolas hesitated for a moment and then fired straight and true, but the arrow was blasted to splinters. Aragorn cried out as the hilt of his sword grew unbearably hot to touch and dropped it. All this happened in the space of seconds. Thorin span on the spot in dismay, trying to follow, his heart hammering.

"Wizard!" Legolas cried. "What is your name?" His white knives were in his hands.

"Saruman!" roared Gimli, springing forward and taking up his bearded axe. "Speak! Tell us where you have hidden our friends!"

The old man, stooped and bent, was too quick for him. He leapt up onto a rock and flung back the dirty robe that had covered him. A glaring, searing white light filled the small clearing in which they stood, and Thorin involuntarily cried out and shielded his eyes. It was brighter than Gimlîn-zâram, filled with unearthly fire.

Piercing blue eyes fixed on Thorin before travelling over the three hunters, and the old man had suddenly grown tall and mighty, bathed in that searing radiance. Gimli's hands were pressed against his eyes and Aragorn could barely look at the figure, but Legolas' face filled with a great wonder and elation so huge that Thorin could not believe it. Surely no Elf had ever looked thus, with eyes of honest joy!

"Mithrandir!" he cried. "Mithrandir!"

"It cannot be," Thorin croaked, swiping at his stinging eyes. The light began to fade, the forest returning to its dim cramped gloom once more, and blinking, Thorin looked up into the impossibly alive face of Gandalf. His great grey bushy beard had turned a frosty white, and he seemed younger and more dangerous, merrier than before and yet deeper.

"You live," he said in stunned amazement, his voice a faint whisper. "You live... how do you live?"

"Well met, Legolas," said Gandalf, shifting his staff to the other hand. "Well met to you all." The three companions stared up at him in wonder, fear and joy, and found no words to say.

"Gandalf!" said Aragorn finally, his voice faint. "Beyond all hope you return to us! But how is this possible?"

Gimli said nothing but he sank to his knees, a ghost of the great grief he had suffered passing over his face to be transformed into utter awe.

"Gandalf," said the wizard, mulling the name over in his mouth as though returning to a favourite wine. "Gandalf, yes. That is what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey."

"You _fell_ ," Gimli choked, and Gandalf's gentle smile of welcome faded, his eyes glinting with new power.

"Through fire, and water," he said. "From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside."

Thorin felt his mouth drop open. "Then he has done as only the greatest heroes of antiquity have done, and slain a _Balrog,_ " he breathed.

"Darkness took me, and I strayed out of all thought and time," Gandalf continued, looking out over the forest. A soft yearning filled his voice. "Stars wheeled overhead and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again."

He refocused on the four who stood, motionless and stunned, before him. "I've been sent back until my task is done," he said, "though I have forgotten much that I thought I knew, and learned again much that I had forgotten. I can see many things far off, but many things that are close at hand I cannot see. But tell me of yourselves!"

He laid a hand on Gimli's bowed head, and the Dwarf looked up and laughed suddenly, his joyous, unfettered and booming laugh. "Gandalf," he said warmly. "Ach, this is a miracle unlooked for. But you are all in white! We thought you were Saruman!"

"Indeed, I am Saruman, one might say," Gandalf said, smiling. "Saruman as he should have been. I am Gandalf the White. Now, give me your news!"

As Aragorn began to tell the tale of the Fellowship following Gandalf's fall in Khazad-dûm, Thorin tried to swallow his amazement and could not. The sight of this Wizard cloaked in all the majesty and mystery of his terrible power, yet wise with the weight of the turning Ages and full of compassion and pity, nearly stole his breath from his lungs. He had never seen him so, not in life nor in the eighty years following his death. Gandalf the Grey had been a gruff and occasionally cantankerous figure – mighty indeed, yes, but more often at odds with Thorin than working alongside him.

Here was a Maia reborn.

"Tharkûn, zigrâl belkul," Thorin said, and he bowed his head.

The white head turned to Thorin, and their eyes met. Gandalf's mouth twitched and he inclined his head in return. "So it seems I have finally managed to impress you," he murmured through lips that barely moved.

"You are so changed," said Thorin, gazing up at the Wizard. "You seem more joyous, and yet at the same time grimmer than you were."

"Death has a way of changing people, Thorin Oakenshield," said Gandalf, a faint echo of his previous comforting gruffness in his voice. His blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on snow. "I shouldn't need to have to tell _you_ that."

"You are back," Thorin said, and he let out a long, slow breath that shuddered in his chest. "Beyond all hope, you are back. Thank Mahal. Gimli grieved. They all did."

"Hm. And do they know of your presence?"

"Gimli does, always," Thorin said proudly. "His perception is a great gift to me. Legolas also, though he cannot sense or hear me. Aragorn does not know, though I think he suspects something. Gimli is not subtle."

"I, however, _am."_ Gandalf smiled, as though listening to Aragorn speaking of their brief respite in Lothlórien. "Now tell me, when did Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, condescend to call the son of Thranduil by his name?"

Thorin jerked backwards, and then he scowled darkly. A curious face in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he turned to see Gimli looking up at Gandalf speculatively.

Gimli blinked and his eyebrow crooked. "Ah," he said to himself. "So a wizard may hear my kin as well. That is good to know."

"Even so short a time in Lothlórien works many wonders, and we were in need of healing, heart-sick and wounded in soul," Aragorn continued, and he looked up. "We had a great grief to contend with. Your fall, Gandalf, it tore much of the heart from our Fellowship. The Lady sent us on our journey via the river Anduin with all the blessings she could bestow."

"And those are not to be discarded lightly," Gandalf said, refocusing upon the Man. Then he glanced down upon Gimli, a smile hovering upon his lips. "How did you enjoy your time amongst the Elves, Master Gimli?"

"It is the crowning jewel of my life to date," Gimli said, and he pressed a hand against his jerkin with reverent fingers. "I have never seen a place so fair and sorrowful, nor found such friendship where I never thought to seek it."

"Gimli has become the champion of the Lady of the Golden Wood," said Legolas fondly. "We may expect him to school any and all who speak ill of her - with his axe, if need be."

"She gave me such a gift that my mind still cannot grasp it," Gimli murmured. "Three hairs from her head, shining like golden flowers, like the stars captured in the mesh of wires."

Gandalf's eyes flicked over to Thorin. "I have messages along these lines, but I still find it hard to believe. Truly?"

Firmly, Thorin nodded. "He does not know their import," he said.

"My dear Dwarf, you surprise me," said Gandalf. "I never knew you to care at all for Elves."

"Aye, well," Gimli said, and he sent a sidelong glance at Legolas, mischief lurking in his dark eyes. "Some aren't nearly so bad as they're made out to be. Though I could name one who could drive a Dwarf to drink."

"I also find that Dwarves have been given something of a false reputation," Legolas added innocently. "They are far more irritating than reported."

For the first time Gandalf seemed astonished, and he looked between Legolas and Gimli with growing amazement.

"Do not ask," muttered Thorin, and let his head fall onto his chest. "I beg you. Do not ask."

Gandalf mastered his expression after a few moments, and then he turned back to Aragorn. "So, you made it to Lothlórien? Were you able to make the falls?"

"Yes. But some foul luck was upon us, and all my decisions went astray from the moment we made camp," Aragorn went on, and he passed a hand over his brow. "At Amon Hen, the Uruks attacked. Boromir is dead."

"Ah!" Gandalf cried. "But this is dark news! You bring me grief. He was a great Man."

"It is not the only news that may bring you sorrow," Legolas said, and he closed his bright Elven eyes. "The Fellowship is broken. Frodo resolved to journey to Mordor alone, and Merry and Pippin are lost in this wood. They were captured by the Uruks at the behest of Saruman."

"No wonder you fired upon me," Gandalf said, his face drawn in thought. "Still, I may bring you some comfort here. Merry and Pippin are found and safe – a great deal safer than ourselves! Still, that Frodo is alone: this is hard tidings."

"Not alone," Legolas said. "We think Sam went with him."

"Did he?" said Gandalf, and there was a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face. "Good! Very good. You lighten my heart."

"But the young Hobbits," Gimli rumbled impatiently. "Where are they? Safe _where?_ "

"Ah, that is a power long forgotten, one that Saruman has foolishly overlooked. Merry and Pippin's coming to Fangorn will be as the falling of small stones that begins the avalanche in the mountains. Even as we talk here, I hear the first rumblings. Saruman had best not be caught away from home when the dam bursts!"

"In one thing you have not changed, old friend," Aragorn said, and a rare smile tugged at his mouth. "You still talk in riddles."

Thorin grunted in agreement.

"Saruman cannot know that the Hobbits captured did not carry the Ring," Gandalf explained. "Neither does he understand that it has passed out of his reach. He is bending all his power upon the world of Men, for in our place he would have journeyed to Minas Tirith and taken refuge there. No doubt he thinks the swords of Men would be a great blow against the power of Isengard. Thanks to his meddling, Merry and Pippin have arrived, with marvellous speed and in the nick of time, to Fangorn, where otherwise they might never have come at all!"

"You still have not told us of this long-forgotten power that sleeps in these woods," grumbled Gimli.

"It does not sleep any longer," Legolas told him. "It wakes. And it is angry."

Gandalf's eyebrows rose. "Yes, it is angry, and still Saruman looks to Men as his greatest threat, never understanding the danger that lurks on his doorstep. He does not know of the Ringbearer, and that is a great relief. Nor does he know of the Winged Messenger."

"The Winged Messenger!" cried Legolas. "I shot at him with the bow of Galadriel above Sarn Begir, and I felled him from the sky. He filled us all with fear. What new terror is this?"

Gandalf heaved a sigh and began to walk south towards the edge of the forest. "One that you cannot slay with arrows. You only slew his steed. It was a good deed, but the Rider was soon horsed again. For he was a Nazgûl, one of the Nine, now mounted upon great winged steeds. They are not permitted to cross the river as yet, and so Saruman is unaware of this new shape in which the Ringwraiths have been clad. No, all his thought is bent on Rohan, and the Ring. What if Théoden, Lord of the Mark, should come by it? Was it present in the skirmish? Was it found? _That_ is the danger he sees, and so he will flee back to Isengard to double and treble his assault upon the lands of the Horse-lords."

"Will you not tell me who and what power has the wee Hobbits?" Gimli pleaded, following alongside the wizard. "We have crossed this land to help them, and now to hear that they are safe and yet in danger? It is too much to bear. Where are they?"

"With Treebeard, and the Ents."

"The Ents!" said Legolas, standing still for a moment in shock. "Nan belain!"

"Then there is truth in the old legends of Rohan!" Aragorn exclaimed. "I thought they were only a memory of ancient days!"

"What in Durin's name is an Ent?" Thorin said, baffled. Gimli wrinkled his nose.

"All right, I'm about to display my ignorance, and if you laugh you'll find yourself without any knees. Please explain for this poor Dwarf what an Ent is, and why it's got the Elf so excited?"

"Every Elf has sung songs of the old Onodrim and their long sorrow. Yet even amongst us they are only a memory," said Legolas, his face alive with excitement. "If I were to meet with one I would indeed feel young again."

Gimli chuckled, and looked up. "So, you're closer to four million years, then?"

Legolas shook his head ruefully and pushed Gimli's shoulder. "Do not make it more ridiculous than it already is."

"Ah, but Elves are ridiculous," Gimli said mock-sadly, and he pushed Legolas' side in return. "Sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings, but to be honest I thought you already knew."

Legolas laughed in delight. "Insolent Dwarf!"

"And proud!" Gimli grinned, and the Elf grinned back. Thorin looked between them and stifled the urge to scream. What in the name of all Seven Fathers was happening between his star and Thranduil's son?

Still grinning, Gimli turned to the Wizard who was listening to the repartee between the Elf and Dwarf in speechless amazement. "So, what _is_ an Ent, Gandalf?"

"Ah – it is a giant tree-herder, Gimli," Gandalf told him, pushing aside a clinging vine. Sunlight was beginning to pierce the trees ahead. The edge of the forest was nearing once more.

Gimli's mouth dropped open a moment, but he rallied magnificently. "I see. And Treebeard is an Ent?"

"Indeed, he is THE Ent, I should say. His long, slow story would make a tale for which we have no time now. Treebeard is Fangorn, the guardian of the forest. He is the oldest of the Ents, the oldest living thing that still walks under the sun upon this Middle-Earth. I hope indeed, Legolas, that you may meet him."

"I should be honoured," said Legolas breathlessly.

"I should be wary," Gimli said. "It sounds as though this Treebeard is dangerous."

"Dangerous!" cried Gandalf, smiling broadly as the trees thinned and the broad sweeping plains of Rohan began to be seen between the trunks. "And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet. And Aragorn is dangerous and Legolas is dangerous. You are beset by dangers, Gimli son of Glóin, for you yourself are dangerous! Treebeard is dangerous too, but wise and kindly nonetheless. Still, now the coming of the Hobbits will spill their long wrath, and soon it will be running like a flood. The tide will turn against Saruman and the axes of Isengard. A thing is about to happen which has not happened since the Elder days: the Ents are going to wake up and find that they are strong."

Gimli fingered the axe at his belt. "Oh. That's... good. Do you suppose they make a distinction between types of axes?"

"You mentioned messages?" said Aragorn as they stepped out into the sunshine. Thorin winced as the light crept into his tired eyes, and he felt once again his great exhaustion sweep over him.

"Oh yes," Gandalf said, and he turned to them with the light edging his white clothes and hair in gold. "I passed through Lothlórien myself following the fall of the Balrog, and there I found healing. The Lady gave me messages to give you, though they may not bring much in the way of ease.

"To Aragorn I was bidden to say this:

"Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?  
Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?  
Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,  
And the Grey Company ride from the North.  
But dark is the path appointed for thee:  
The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea."

Aragorn's mouth tightened, and his eyes were grim and conflicted. "She brings me no comfort or healing," he said gravely, and he lowered his face in thought.

Gandalf laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, before turning to Legolas. "To you, Legolas Thranduillion, she sent this word:

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree  
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!  
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,  
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."

"Then she sends me no message?" said Gimli, and he bent his head.

"I cannot imagine why you would want a message such as these," Legolas said, a strange obscure sorrow in his eyes. "Dark are her words, and little do they mean to those who receive them."

"Oh, your pardon Gimli," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "No, I was thinking upon the messages. To you she sent words, and they are neither dark nor sad.

"'To Gimli son of Glóin,' she said, 'give his Lady's greeting. Lockbearer, wherever thou goest my thought goes with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right tree!'"

"Oh, now you've done it," Thorin muttered as Gimli's face shone with renewed gladness.

"In happy hour you have returned to us, Gandalf!" he cried, and he began to sing the Song of Shaping, one of the oldest and most joyous songs in Khuzdul. He stamped his foot in an old axe-dancer's movement, spinning his axe in the accompanying pattern and throwing it, turning end over end, into the air. "Come, come!" he shouted, beaming and laughing, spinning upon the spot as he caught his axe deftly, "since Gandalf's head is now sacred, let us find one that it is right to cleave!"

Legolas seemed torn between jealousy, fascination and amusement. "Would we all merited such a reaction," he commented.

Gandalf laughed. "Well, let us find a head for Gimli to cleave. That will not be far to seek! Now we make haste – we have wasted enough time. Our path leads to Meduseld. Théoden-King must be warned."

"That will be a long walk," said Aragorn, raising a wry eyebrow.

Gandalf only gave him a sardonic look, before turning his gaze out over the rolling hills. He let out a whistle of such clarity that the others stood amazed that such a piercing sound could come from those bearded old lips.

Faint and far-off there came an answering whinny.

"What," Thorin began, and Gandalf's hand twitched, his fingers lifting in a signal for Thorin to halt his questions. The four waited, wondering. Before long, there came the sound of hooves upon the ground, barely more than a tremor at first, but growing louder and louder.

"More than one horse is coming," said Aragorn.

"Certainly," said Gandalf. "We will not all fit on one!"

"There are three," said Legolas, gazing out over the plain. "Look, there is Hasufel, and there is my friend Arod beside him! The third horse strides ahead – ai! I have never seen his like before!"

"Nor will you again," said Gandalf. "That is Shadowfax, and he is the chief of the Mearas, lords of horses, and not even Théoden-King has looked upon a better. He has come for me: the horse of the White Rider. We will brave the coming battle together."

"He shines like silver in the sun," said Gimli, wonderingly.

"Did I just hear you appreciate a horse, Gimli?" said Legolas, holding out his hand for Arod to sniff.

Gimli snorted. "Must be imagining things, Legolas. I understand that in the very elderly the hearing may fail from time to time."

The great horse trotted up to them, his mane free of braids and his back bare of any saddle. "Hello, my friend," said Gandalf gently, stroking the horse's soft nose. "It has been a long journey for you, but you are wise and swift and come at need. Let us ride now together and part not in this world again!"

Legolas and Aragorn mounted their horses once more, and Gandalf tipped his head at Gimli, who was looking resigned. "Well, perhaps I can set you before me, Gimli," he began to say, but the Dwarf shook his head.

"Nay, Legolas shall take me. Let me not trouble a Prince of Horses! I will ride behind the Elf."

Gandalf's face was both puzzled and pleased as the Elf pulled Gimli up by the hand once more. Then Shadowfax tossed his proud head and led the pace due south. "We ride to Edoras!" Gandalf cried, and Shadowfax neighed in response, echoed by the calls of Hasufel and Arod.

Gimli gripped Legolas' waist, his thumbs tucked into his belt. "You know, Legolas," Thorin dimly heard him say, "I have only just realised. This was in the Lady's mirror: you and I on the back of a grey horse, riding over green hills."

"So it was," Legolas' voice drifted back through the air. "Please do not grip so, Gimli – my ribs are creaking!"

"Ach, I am sorry laddie. Better?"

"Much. I wonder which time it is you saw, this or the previous one?"

"Perhaps there will be others."

"I would like to think so."

"Aye, and I."

Thorin stared hopelessly after the three fleet horses, and then up at the sky. Overpowering confusion rattled in his brain, but it could not be denied any longer.

"They are truly friends," he whispered. "Legolas and Gimli are truly friends."

Their names sounded right together, as though they had been made to be said one after the other.

* * *

"Hullo, my idùzhib. I am sorry I have not visited in some days."

Thorin yawned hugely and sat down upon the bed. The old Hobbit that lay under the coverlets looked nearly transparent and weightless, as though his body was as flyaway as his thin white hair. Bilbo was peering at a book, his eyes tracing the letters. Occasionally they flicked back over a line, as though he had forgotten his place.

  


_Bilbo and Thorin, by[asparklethatisblue](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/65154830264/thorin-still-can-visit-the-living-world-unseen-and) _

"I have had some adjusting to do, my Bilbo. Dwarves are not as adaptable as Hobbits," Thorin continued, and he gazed down at the indistinct shapes of Bilbo's large feet under the blankets. He grew cold so easily these days. "I cannot bend and sway with the winds of fortune as you do. I hold fast, and the winds buffet me beyond my capacity to stand. So much changes that I thought unchangeable – so much is wrong that I believed was true. I once wished for you to tell me how to understand these Elves. Now - now I find it is all too impossible."

Bilbo sighed and sat back against his pillows, his book falling into his lap. "Oh, I can't be doing with this," he said crossly. "Not enough light, and this author repeats themself far too often for my liking. Shabby work, very shabby."

Thorin smiled. "I imagine you have quite a bit to say about that."

Bilbo rubbed at his eyes with his gnarled old fingers, and then he let his hand fall onto his book, tapping impatiently. "Well, Mad Baggins," he said to himself, "if you're not in the mood to read, perhaps it might be an idea to write? Yes, yes, possibly. I'm sure I could do a better job than this fritterer of perfectly fine ink and paper. I would like to have a few sharp words with them, if ever I met them!"

With a glance, Thorin noted that the book was written in Bilbo's own spidery, thin handwriting. He turned away, a pang shooting through him.

Bilbo carefully pulled his blankets aside and pushed himself up. It took two tries. Thorin watched, his heart clenching, as the once-nimble little burglar hobbled across his room with great effort. He stopped at his desk and shuffled some papers, and then his brows lowered in an expression at once so painfully familiar and so confused that Thorin's breath caught behind his teeth. "Now why did I come over here," Bilbo said, turning back to his bed and frowning at it. It was the same old puzzled, slightly-offended frown.

"You wanted to write," Thorin rasped.

"Oh yes, I wanted to write," Bilbo repeated in a relieved tone, his hand flying to his chest as if in self-reassurance. "Forget my own head next. Now, paper, paper..."

Thorin watched Bilbo rummaging for a few minutes. The peace of Imladris stole back over the little room, and he leaned his chin upon his hand, his eyes lingering upon the old Hobbit. Bilbo picked up paper after paper, squinting at them, reading a few lines, tutting or shuffling them into other piles.

"I find myself baffled, my One," said Thorin eventually. "Legolas is a mystery to me. How is it you can understand these Elves at all? They are thousands upon thousands of years old, ancient and wise and superior, arrogant and aloof – and yet they welcome you amongst them though by all logic they should scorn you. Now, Legolas is truly Gimli's friend, and they will not suffer a parting. Even _Gandalf_ sees this. Yet Legolas was once my bitter enemy, and levelled an arrow at my face and called me 'Dwarf' as though it were an insult."

Bilbo harrumphed beneath his breath. He picked up a few more papers in silence, wrinkling his nose at them and putting them aside, and then absently he began to hum. His voice had become thin and quavering, but the tune was recognisable. Thorin's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"I would have sung it for you again, had I known you liked it," he said in a quiet voice, and he raised his eyes to trace over the wrinkled face. The features he had known so well had been softened and blurred by the passage of time.

"Confusticate it!" Bilbo suddenly exclaimed, snapping out of his humming. "I cannot remember all the words!" He brought his palm down upon his little writing-desk, the papers and the ink-bottle jumping. Bilbo's eyes were full of utter frustration, and it was at that moment that Thorin realised that Bilbo _knew._ He _knew_ he was beginning to drift, to lose his anchor to the here and now. And he hated it.

His mouth was dry as he began to sing, low and halting, "the fire was red, it flaming spread, the trees like torches blazed with light."

Bilbo's eyes closed, and he exhaled slowly. "Oh, of course" he whispered, still as a statue. A wistful, hopeless longing stole over his features. Then his eyes flew open, and he began to search through his papers with far more purpose. " Now, I must write it down, I must write it, before I - I... Now, where is that pen, I had it only yesterday..."

Thorin could see it, sticking out from upon a high shelf. His creaky Hobbit would not be able to reach it, though Thorin certainly could have. Once. "It is upon the second shelf," he said, and sighed.

"I don't like that pen, Elladan gave it to me only because he didn't want it, and it scratches the paper. I can't abide a scratchy pen," Bilbo said, sounding peevish. "I want the other pen, the good one. It has an eagle-feather, you know."

The eagle-feather pen had been lost when Bilbo moved to Rivendell, nearly eighteen years ago. "I am sure you'll find it. I have every confidence in you," said Thorin, and the sadness welled up in him until he felt he would overflow.

Bilbo snorted. "Well, that makes a pleasant change, I must say."

Thorin's head whipped up.

"Well, I can't seem to find it. No doubt Frodo moved it. Frodo's always moving my things, but then he's young and curious I suppose. He'll grow out of the habit." Bilbo rummaged through the papers on his desk for a little longer, and then he rubbed at his eye. "Oh, drat, botheration and blast. It's definitely gone, and it was my favourite."

"I will make you a pen," Thorin blurted, his pulse thundering in his ears. "I will make you a thousand pens, Bilbo my own, if you will only tell me, please, _please_... do you hear me, unfocused in time as you are? Do you wander where you might speak with me?"

"Hmm," Bilbo said, frowning again. Then he shook his white head. "Must get the pipes in this place fixed. I will tell Elrond. The Gaffer no doubt knows a stout fellow or two to do the job. They murmur so! Gracious, it's no wonder I can't read!"

Thorin stared at the Hobbit a moment longer. Then, slowly, he bent over under the weight of his sudden sorrow, his hands pressing to his face and his chin touching his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> _TBC..._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Nan Belain! - By the Valar!  
> Mellon nin – my friend.
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Inùdoy kurdulu – my son of the heart  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Balakhûn – power-man  
> Khathuzhâl – The Endurer  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Idùzhib - diamond  
> zigrâl belkul - Mighty wizard  
> Birashagimi – I'm sorry (literally, "I regret")  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys  
> 'amad – mother  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight
> 
> _Some dialogue taken from the chapter, "The White Rider" and from the movie script._
> 
> _Trolls were not in fact made from Ents (as Orcs were made from Elves) by Morgoth in the dark days of the First Age, but were rather created in imitation and mockery of Ents. As a matter of fact, Ents are far, far stronger than Trolls._  
> 
> I can't believe it! Sansûkh is now on the first page for Bagginshield when you sort by kudos! Thank you SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH..!! *runs away flailing into the sunset weeping tears of pure happiness*


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ART AND ARTINESS: Holy sheet you people are incredible and so talented it makes me want to snap my dinky crayons over my knee and run screaming into the streets._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _[Jeza-red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com) ~~the incredible Space Wizard~~ has drawn a scene inspired by the last [gift side-fic, 'Shared Silence'](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/61837808753/sansukh-side-fic-shared-silence): and it is ADORBS AND UTTERLY GORGEOUS. [Dwalin, Orla and their darling mad little family](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/62787066268/a-lil-picture-that-came-to-mind-when-i-read-the). You KNOW you wanna see Dwalin cradling his baby ~~and the magnificence that is Orla's boobs~~_
> 
> _[Flukeoffate](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com) is an Absolute and Utter Gem. She has drawn, not one, but TWO DWARROWDAMS. (I owe you a gift-fic, my dear friend - let me know who/what you'd like!) [Here is Ymris the Concubine](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/62223711416/ymris-by-yorikosakakibara-determamfidds-oc), the fabulous and GORGEOUS ancestor of the Line of Ri! And [here is Zhori the Weaver](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/62395534755/zhori-the-weaver-by-yorikosakakibara-finally), Ymris' descendant and the mother of Dori, Nori and Ori! THEY ARE BOTH SPECTACULAR AND YOU SHOULD SEE THEM NOW NOW NOW_
> 
> _The amazing[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) has drawn a heartbreaking and beautiful picture of an [older Dis,](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/62875431240/dis-waited) still waiting. It is so lovely and so painful, _it hurts so gooooood__
> 
> _Also, while I was away?[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) and [fuckthisimgoingto221B](fuckthisimgoingto221B) did AMAZINGNESS (that they will unveil to the world in good time eheheh) and so in thanks I wrote another gift-fic: [Cry Uncle](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/63064002735/sansukh-side-fic-cry-uncle). I hope you enjoy!_
> 
> _FINALLY (jeez these are getting long) you should totally take a break from all this angsty fluff and have a look at[you-comfort-me](http://you-comfort-me.tumblr.com)'s adorable and hilarious [gifset of Sansûkh . ](http://you-comfort-me.tumblr.com/post/63254303752/my-favorite-fic-determamfidd-i-am-so-sorry) I am still giggling at the last one ("Hisses at Elf" bwaaaaaaaahahahaah oh Thorin you suck)_
> 
> __  
> ~~GOD that was a lot of links~~  
> 

"The bright shiny thing's gone," said Kíli, squinting up at the mammoth anvil.

A chuckle like a distant avalanche greeted this. "Aye, I have sent it out into the world once more to wait until the time is right. When all the conditions are met and all the elements are aligned, it will come forth."

Kíli frowned at his Maker. "Oh, that's not cryptic at all or anything."

The great gnarled hand gently stroked through his hair, and Kíli repressed his shudder even as a warm glow bloomed in his chest. "I cannot tell you more, my son. Should our hopes prove true, all will be revealed. Even the possibility of greatness has power."

"Worse than Gandalf and Elrond combined," Kíli grumbled, before he yawned. "I have to go back to Arda and watch Hobbits soon."

Mahal tilted his head, and concern sparked in the starlit depths of his profound and ageless eyes. "Be gentle with yourself, Kíli. You are tired. That is your body's sign that you need rest, not one of weakness."

Kíli nodded and yawned again, before he (very belatedly) remembered to cover his mouth. "I know. Still, it's not too long, not like Thorin."

"How does your uncle fare?"

"Oh, like you don't know," Kíli said, snorting.

"I do, but I would hear your thoughts." Mahal removed his hand from Kíli's head, and the mighty smith of the Valar leaned against his workbench for a moment, his fathomless gaze piercing through Kíli's flesh and bone to whatever lay beneath. "You are his unday."

Kíli cleared his throat, self-conscious for a moment. "Well, I suppose? There's Fíli, too – and Frerin, and Gimli..."

"No, merry little prince," said Mahal, and the smile touching those ancient, indescribably beautiful lips made Kíli feel ten feet tall. "You and your brother follow him with utter loyalty and love, and he knows it. Our Thorin does not forget. Now, tell me how you see him, at this moment."

"Tired, mostly," Kíli said after a pause, before peering up at Mahal tentatively. "He's confused as well. And then again, Boromir's death and Frerin dragging up the dragon-sickness has him all turned around. He hates what he became and the guilt still tugs at him at times, despite everything we've done and said. The Elf is making him question everything he ever held true – and he can't stand seeing Bilbo the way he is now. But he keeps going. He _always_ keeps going."

"Aye, he does," Mahal said in a thoughtful voice. With a sound like a mighty wind gusting through a pine-forest, the Vala sighed. "Do you petition me once more before you leave?"

"Are you surprised?" said Kíli archly. "You know I won't stop either."

"My son, I know what it is you hope," Mahal said, turning away. "However, the places ascribed to us by Eru Ilúvatar may not be so easily brushed aside. Bilbo Baggins will be sent to my brother Námo to find his rest in the Halls of Mandos, along with the other Mortal and Elven dead. Too, we do not know if the Halfling would even wish to come here. There is no sunlight nor a single green growing thing to delight him, and he does not find joy in craft like my children."

"Of course he would!" Kíli cried, standing up straighter. "Of course he would! He'd love to see us all again, I know it! No piffling eighty years can ever sever the bonds of our Company. Bilbo and old Balin were great friends, and he was awfully fond of me and Fíli, and he was so kind to Ori. And Uncle-" Kíli stopped, his mouth snapping shut.

"Yes, and then there is your uncle once again," Mahal said sadly. "Were I even able to bring Bilbo Baggins here, it is not certain that he can ever forgive Thorin for his treatment."

Kíli's heart dropped and then he bent his head. "Don't you know?" he pleaded in a tiny voice.

"He is not one of my children," Mahal said. "I cannot see into his heart, as I did not make it."

"But he loves Thorin."

"Those we love may also do us the most harm," said Mahal, and an obscure sorrow passed over his beautiful, indistinct face. "Has the Hobbit ever spoken of forgiveness?"

Kíli swallowed. "I don't know."

Mahal inclined his head. "It would be cruel to bring him to this lightless place without even finding out his wishes, do you not agree?"

Kíli nodded his head, mute with unhappiness.

The mighty hand once more landed upon Kíli's hair, and let out a long, heavy breath. "Do not give up hope, Kíli," said Mahal gently. "Be comforted. Be merry once more, Nathânûn."

Kíli's head whipped up, and he swallowed. "I – I..."

"Shh," Mahal said, and his hand easily cupped Kíli's whole head. "There are evils and wrongs that cannot be so easily righted, but the world has not stopped spinning. Bilbo has not passed into Mandos. There is time yet, laughing river."

Every Dwarf was born knowing his or her true-name, their dark name, their Deep name, the name of names. It was their gift from their Maker, to be whispered in darkness and underneath stone, never to be said under the naked sky. Kíli had only spoken it aloud twice in his life: to Fíli, and to his mother and uncle. "I did not expect to hear my kherumel, Lord," he said, his throat dry.

"Ah," said Mahal, and he smiled. "It is the name I wrote into you, and so it is the one I see when I think of you. I am sorry if it gave you a shock."

A sense of protective, fatherly love emanated from the wise and glorious face, and the lingering echoes of the name which only family knew filled Kíli with a feeling of absolute rightness. He let his sadness fade to a dull ache. "I'm all right. But about Bilbo - What can we do?"

"You will do your best, my son," replied Mahal, pushing a strand of Kíli's wild hair away from his face. "That is all any of us can do."

* * *

Thorin tried to focus on the report before him. The word 'boring' had been underlined four times.

"What in Durin's name is an Entmoot," he said blankly, and Frár pulled a face.

"It's a bloody waste of time, is what it is," Lóni grumbled. "They've been groaning and swaying for nearly a day, and apparently they've just been passing a few pleasantries."

"That is not an explanation," Thorin growled, and Frár patted his husband's arm before nodding respectfully to Thorin.

"It's a gathering of Ents," he said, and tugged on his braided moustaches. "And I think I can guess what your next question is going to be..."

Thorin just looked at him with flat, unimpressed eyes. "I have discovered what an Ent is. Do they intend violence against Rohan or the Hobbits?"

Lóni shook his head. "No, they're mostly concerned with Saruman. They're not fond of axes, but apparently Hobbits suit them well enough. They have decided that Merry and Pippin are not Orcs, at least."

"Well that is some relief," said Thorin, and he shook his head. "Hobbits cannot possibly be mistaken for orcs. Are Ents blind?"

Frár tipped his head. "No," he said thoughtfully in his deep, soft voice. "Just careful. They do everything with such a vast amount of deliberation and long, slow thought. Merry and Pippin are a great shock to them- Merry in particular. He insists on taking action as soon as possible, and I think it shocks them deeply."

Thorin sighed and looked back down at Ori's report, the quick lines of his script curling over the page. "And an Entwash?"

Lóni's eyes brightened. "Oh, that is what serves them for food. It is like water to look upon, but they seem to need nothing more. The hobbits drank of it, and I swear I could see the hair on their heads curling!"

"Aye, they grew four inches or more over a small snack," smiled Frár. "Gimli will get the shock of his life when he sees them next, standing over his shoulder instead of below it."

Thorin's eyebrows raised. "Indeed."

Lóni rubbed at his eyes in weariness, and Frár rested a hand upon his back. "Anything more you need from us?" he asked. "Only, we should probably retire. It's been a long day..."

"Go, take your rest," Thorin said, and turned back to the report once more. 'So. Utterly. DULL!' had been circled several times, and he felt his lip quirk. "Thank you both."

Frár bowed, and Lóni quickly followed suit, stifling a yawn. Then the couple shuffled from Thorin's forge, hand in hand and speaking softly with their heads close together.

Thorin stared through the report for several moments before it dawned upon him that he was not even reading it. He cast it aside with a muttered oath, and then turned to where the half-finished work sat upon his bench. He had tempered a slim tube of steel and had placed the markings for the etchings he wished to place upon the barrel. The nib was fiddly, but it was not beyond his skill.

Bilbo would have a thousand pens, each more lovely than the last, made to fit the clever hands of his Burglar with all the skill Thorin could contrive.

He let his eyes rest upon the pen for a little longer, and then he turned away. His next shift began soon.

Ori, Bifur and Frerin were waiting for him in the gathering hall, and he nodded to them as he approached. Frerin looked a little worried and searched his face carefully, but neither of his old companions seemed to notice Thorin's preoccupation. "Dull then, was it?" he said to Ori by way of greeting.

The scribe rolled his eyes. "I was afraid at first, you know," he said with an indignant huff, "and then I realised they never get around to doing anything at all!"

"But Merry and Pippin are definitely safe with them," Thorin said, leaning down for the answer.

"Oh yes. Treebeard is becoming rather fond of them, I think." Ori scratched at his head. "It's very hard to tell what a talking tree is thinking."

Thorin blinked and then he thought better of saying anything.

"Did you get any sleep, nadad?" Frerin said, stepping close and bumping their shoulders together.

"Aye, some," Thorin said, and he smiled thinly at his brother. "Come on then. Let us find out what this King of the Horse-Lords is like."

The pool of Gimlîn-zâram seemed to glow in welcome as he approached, and he took his seat and shifted for Frerin to take the space next to him with barely a thought. The starlight pierced him as always, and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was looking upon the outside of a great Hall, bound in golden reliefs of horse-heads and curling, elegant tracery, its roof thatched with golden straw. He squinted up at it as the three other Dwarrows of his party gathered behind him.

"Where's this?" asked Frerin in a subdued voice.

"It must be Edoras, the city of the Rohirrim," said Ori. "The Hall itself is called Meduseld. What's the King called again?"

"He is Théoden, Lord of the Mark," Thorin answered absently, and he turned to see the huge shining shape of Shadowfax making his way through the gates below, followed closely by the shapes of Arod and Hasufel. "There they are."

"Who's that?" said Frerin, frowning. He pointed back at the Hall, and Thorin glanced over to see a tall pale figure, proud and straight, standing before the pillars of Meduseld. "Is it a Dwarrowdam?"

"They're called women, in the race of Men," said Ori, shading his eyes against the glare that came from the thin light of the overcast sky. "I don't know who it could be. She stands there like a flag, doesn't she?"

Her hair and dress were whipped by the strong winds that tore at the lone peak of Edoras, but the woman never moved. Thorin found himself thinking of his sister, leading their people out from the ruins of Belegost all those years ago. "She has the same steel in her," he said, and nodded in approval.

The horses came trotting up through the steep streets towards them, and a guard stepped away from the Hall to bow perfunctorily to the riders. "Greetings, my Lords," he said. "I am Háma. Welcome to Edoras."

Thorin looked up for the woman all in white, but she was gone.

Gimli glanced around at the grey faces of the people, staring at him and at the Elf with incurious and weary eyes. "You'll find more cheer in a graveyard," he muttered to himself.

The only sign that Legolas had heard him was a slight twitch of his lips.

Gandalf dismounted, and Shadowfax nuzzled at his robes for a moment before suffering to be led away. Gimli grunted as he slid down from the horse's high back, landing squarely on his heavy boots. "Dratted beast," he said, and straightened with a wince.

Legolas was light as down settling on snow as he dismounted beside the Dwarf. "Are you well, mellon nin?" he said teasingly. Gimli only growled in response.

Aragorn rolled his eyes skyward.

Gandalf nodded to Háma, and then he began to walk towards the door of the Golden Hall. The guard stepped before him, and in a reluctant voice he said, "I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame."

Gandalf looked at him from under his brows. "Really now, there is no need. We are friends of Rohan."

Háma looked apologetic. "I am the Doorward of Théoden, and thus am I bid."

Aragorn had stiffened. "It is not my will," he said softly.

"It is the will of Théoden," said Háma.

"Truly? Then why can I hear the voice of Wormtongue beneath your words?" Gandalf said, and then he sighed. "This is idle talk. Needless is Théoden's demand, yet it is useless to refuse. A king will have his own way in his own hall, be it folly or wisdom."

Thorin blanched at that, and Frerin whispered, "don't you _dare,_ Thorin. Stay here. Stay strong."

"I do not leave," he murmured back, and then he gritted his teeth, his jaw rippling beneath his beard. Old long-neglected wounds had been reopened to reveal the rot beneath, and it would take some time to clean them.

Legolas drew his white knives from the shoulder-holsters in one sweeping and graceful movement, flipping the handles to face the Doorwarden. Then he took his bow and quiver and laid them by the door. "Keep these well," he told the Man tersely. "They came from the woods of Lothlórien, and I would be most grieved to lose them."

"And here is Glamdring, come out of Gondolin," Gandalf said, laying down the sword beside Legolas' bow. Aragorn said nothing, but laid his sword beside Glamdring without a word.

"Well, if my axes have Glamdring and the bow of the Lady to keep them company, then they may stay here without shame," Gimli decided, and he began to pull them from his belt. Háma's eyebrows began to rise at the sheer _number_ of weapons the travellers carried. The final item (Gimli's boot-knife) finally made it onto the pile with a clatter.

Then Gandalf made to step through the door, but Háma stopped him, embarrassment in his face. "Your staff," he said.

Gandalf made a disbelieving noise deep in his throat. "Prudence is one thing, but discourtesy is another. You would not part an old man from his walking stick."

Háma looked unconvinced, and so Legolas stepped forward and offered Gandalf his arm solicitously. Gandalf took it with a great show of tottering old age, and as he passed the four dead Dwarrows he glanced down at Thorin and winked.

Thorin's mouth snapped shut. "Wily old meddler," he grumbled.

The doors swung open onto the sight of a great many-pillared hall, long and wide and filled with shadows. The floor was paved with stone of many different colours, and the pillars were richly carved and gleamed dully with gold and deep warm colours. The walls were decked with tapestries, and Gimli peered up at them curiously. "Eorl the Young," Aragorn murmured. "Thus he rode out of the North to the Battle of the Field of Celebrant."

At the head of the Hall, beyond a hearth set deep into the floor and facing north towards the door, there sat a great chair, carved all over with running horses and the arms fashioned in the shape of golden horse-heads. In it there crouched an old, bent man with flyaway hair, his body clad in a reeking old fur and a crown set upon his head. His blue eyes were milky with age. By his elbow sat a small, hunched man with lank black hair and a sallow, waxy face.

In the shadows beside him came a flash of white, and Thorin recognised the woman from before. "So she is part of the royal house then," he murmured to himself.

As the travellers approached, the black-haired man began to whisper furiously to the King, and Gandalf lifted his hand in greeting. "Hail Théoden, son of Thengel!" he said. "I have returned, for now the storm comes and friends should gather together lest they be destroyed singly."

The old man paused, before his eyes travelled to the advisor at his side. "I greet you," he said in a slow, halting voice that was as dusty and dry as old bones long turned to powder. "Maybe you look for welcome. But you will not find it here, Gandalf Stormcrow. You have ever been a herald of woe. When Shadowfax returned to us riderless, I confess I rejoiced at the return of the horse, but more still at the lack of a rider. Why should I welcome you?"

"You speak justly, Lord," said the pale man by his side, and he turned to face them with heavy-lidded eyes. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Láthspell, I name him. Ill-news is an ill guest!"

Gimli's lip curled with some distaste at the Man's words. "Slippery," he grunted. "Legolas, did you mark how he turned that around?"

"I did," Legolas said, his face grim.

"Silence," said Aragorn, his lips hardly moving. Gimli's nostrils flared, but he reluctantly subsided.

"One as honest as you would find this man more unpleasant than most," Thorin realised, and Frerin nodded beside him.

Gimli's eyes warmed as he sensed their presence, and he made a small Iglishmêk sign with his gauntleted fingers: _Welcome, great leader and beloved lord._

"You are held wise, my friend Wormtongue, and are doubtless a great support to your master," answered Gandalf, his eyes glinting dangerously and his voice deceptively soft. "Yet in two ways may a man come with evil tidings. He may be a worker of evil; or he may be such as leaves well alone, and comes only to bring aid in time of need."

"That is so," said Wormtongue; "but there is a third kind: pickers of bones, meddlers in other men's sorrows, carrion-fowl that grow fat on war. What aid have you ever brought, Stormcrow? And what aid do you bring now? It was aid from us that you sought last time that you were here. Then my lord bade you choose any horse that you would and be gone; and to the wonder of all you took Shadowfax in your insolence. My lord was sorely grieved; yet to some it seemed that to speed you from the land the price was not too great. I guess that it is likely to turn out the same once more: you will seek aid rather than render it. Do you bring men? Do you bring horses, swords, spears? That I would call aid; that is our present need. But who are these that follow at your tail? Three ragged wanderers in grey, and you yourself the most beggar-like of the four!"

"Be silent!" Gandalf said, and his eyes flashed. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth! I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!"

And with those words, Gandalf levelled his staff before Wormtongue's face, all pretence of age falling from him. "His staff," the oily Man moaned. "Háma, you fool, I told you to take the Wizard's staff!"

Behind them, a group of guards began to approach, and Thorin snapped, "Gimli! Sudûn!"

"Ah," breathed Gimli, whirling and lifting his huge fists. "Aragorn, Legolas," he murmured. "We may miss our weapons more than expected."

"No blood should be shed in the King's Hall," said Aragorn, readying himself in a crouch.

"Doesn't mean we can't make 'em a little sorry," Gimli replied with satisfaction, and Legolas gave a tense chuckle.

"No indeed," he said, and the three launched nearly in unison.

Thorin had never had the opportunity to see his star in hand-to-hand combat. It was worth the wait. Gimli had the massive hands and prodigious upper body strength of the Line of Durin, and he used them both to great advantage, kicking out with his metal-shod boots to bring his opponents down to his level and then punching them with the force of a striking iron bar. He grabbed one guard by the arm and hurled him into another with barely any effort at all, and they crumbled to the floor groaning.

"Azaghâl belkul!" Bifur cheered, and Ori squeaked before he joined in.

Gimli headbutted his last foe deftly, his helm clanging, before he turned back to Aragorn and Legolas. The Man was eliminating the guards with steady, economic movements, his face filled with a severe determination. Legolas was a wild and fey blur of movement, blond hair spinning as his hands reached out and took them out with the deceptive, wiry strength of the Elves.

When Legolas had finished with the last of the guards, Gimli sent him a fierce grin. "Very prettily done, laddie," he said.

Legolas smiled back. "And you."

"Be wary," Aragorn said, panting and coming back to join them. "Wormtongue may yet have a trick or two for us."

Despite his sweaty hair and tattered leathers, Aragorn looked as lordly as the Man seated upon the throne. Thorin gave him a measuring look. It would be harder and harder for him to hide his true eminence with such power and wisdom in his hand and face.

"Good," he said to himself. "Boromir deserves no less than his King's promise."

Several of the guards had hung back from the fray, including Háma and a tall grizzled warrior that stayed close to the dais. The second reminded Thorin strangely of Dwalin, for some reason. Perhaps it was the utter loyalty that shone in his eyes.

"Théoden, son of Thengel," Gandalf said, walking inexorably towards the high chair. "Not all is dark. Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find. No counsel have I to give to those that despair. Yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you. Will you hear them? They are not for all ears. I bid you come out before your doors and look abroad. Too long have you sat in shadows and trusted to twisted tales and crooked promptings."

Watching, Thorin recognised the cold light of insanity in Théoden's eyes, and trembled.

With a small whimper of fear, Wormtongue scrambled from the dais and began to crawl across the floor, away from the Wizard and his master. Rolling his eyes, Gimli turned the Man over onto his back and he gasped up at the Dwarf with horror, stranded like a turtle upon its shell. "I would stay still if I were you," Gimli said, placing one heavy boot upon Wormtongue's chest and leaning slightly.

"Careful, mellon nin," Legolas murmured. "You do not wish to crush his ribs, after all."

"Oh, don't I?" Gimli grinned down at the Man with the promise of violence dancing in his eyes.

"Oooooh," said Ori with approval. "Very nasty. I like it."

"I release you from the spell," Gandalf said, and he opened his hand before the King with a curious gesture of power. Thunder without sound impacted through the air, and Thorin could feel it rattle his teeth.

The old King shuddered, and then he began to laugh, slowly and weakly at first, but gathering in strength. "You have no power here, Gandalf the _Grey,"_ he sneered, and there was an eerie echo to his voice that Thorin remembered well from the slopes of Caradhras.

"Saruman," he whispered, his heart sinking.

Gandalf's face grew thunderous, and he threw off his grey cloak with a flash of blinding light. He spoke in a clear, cold voice. "I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound," he pronounced, and lowered his staff before the King's heart.

"What is it?" Frerin gasped, holding tightly onto Thorin's forearm.

"His mind is overthrown," Thorin said, hating each word. "Saruman has taken control of him until he is a mere shell of what he was. This Man has ruled in a state of witless wandering, not a true King at all."

Frerin looked up at him sharply. "Thorin," he growled.

With a shake of his head, Thorin laid a hand over Frerin's. "No, I do not revisit my guilt, nadad," he said, and he swallowed and leaned his head against his brother's. "I try not to, at any rate. Still, forgive me that the circumstances force me to revisit my grief."

"Too much of that has happened lately," Frerin muttered, and he squeezed Thorin's forearm. "Later, we are talking about this, all right? No ducking away from me, no working instead of getting to the bottom of it. You've been silent too many years."

Thorin closed his eyes momentarily, and then he let out a long breath. "Very well."

"Really?" Frerin jerked back, blinking and looking at him in surprise. "You're not going to fight me on this?"

Thorin shook his head again. "No. As you say, it has been too many years. And you are the only one brave enough to hear me."

Frerin's chest lifted and his chin rose, and then he gave his brother a nod. "Right. Good. Yes."

A flash of white in the corner of his eye caught Thorin's attention, and he turned from his brother to see the woman from before struggling against Aragorn's grip. "Wait," he told her. Her face was torn with fear and anger.

"She loves the King, see? She wants to help him," Frerin nudged him, and Thorin snorted softly.

"Yes, the point is made. Do not labour it to death."

Writhing upon the throne, Théoden snarled, "If I go, Théoden dies!"

"Oh, zuznel," Bifur breathed, and he reached out blindly. Ori stepped forward and took his hand.

"Westron, Bifur," he said absently, staring at the scene before them.

Thorin abruptly recalled that Ori had helped Bifur regain some of his words after the Battle of Five Armies.

Gandalf did not falter, but kept his staff fixed upon the old Man. "You did not kill me, you will not kill him," he said sternly.

The King gasped, and a skull-like face overlaid his wizened one, cruelty in every line. "Rohan is mine," he hissed, clawing at the arms of the chair. Gandalf did not reply, but his expression hardened even further and the King howled in redoubled pain.

"No!" said the woman, her face anguished.

"Begone!" Gandalf commanded. The King screeched with fury and lunged at him, and another flash of light blinded the watchers. When Thorin's eyes recovered, all he could see was the tall shape of the Wizard before him, glowing like a star.

"Tharkûn," he breathed with profoundest respect.

The King had been thrown back in his chair, panting and drained. Even as Thorin gazed upon him in wonder, Théoden's face began to clear and the milky tint to his eyes washed away, leaving them bright and blue and free of all madness.

He tried to pull himself up, a myriad of questions in his suddenly-lucid face, and slumped over. The woman pulled herself from Aragorn's grip and rushed to him, supporting his arms. He turned to her, lost and dazed. "I know your face," he said, and his voice belonged to another Man, a stronger Man. A King.

She smiled, tears standing in her eyes.

"Éowyn," he said, as though breathing the first sweet air he had tasted in decades. " _Éowyn_."

Her smile trembled, and she leaned into his hand that pressed against her face. Théoden smiled upon her in return, before he blinked and pulled himself to his feet. He staggered slightly and she held him close, steadying him. Théoden raised his head and looked out upon his Hall, and every head bent to him, save the one white head before him. "Gandalf?"

"Now, lord," said Gandalf, "look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again, my friend!"

"Dark have been my dreams of late," he said, almost to himself, and he shuddered for a moment.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword," Gandalf said, his eyebrows rising.

The guard that reminded Thorin so of Dwalin stepped forward, bearing a beautiful sword with a crossguard that resembled two plunging horses, their manes tearing in the wind. "Here, lord, is Herugrim, your ancient blade,' he said. "It was found in his chest. Loth was he to render up the keys. Many other things are there which men have missed."

"You lie," said Wormtongue. "And this sword your master himself gave into my keeping."

"And he now requires it of you again," said Théoden. "Does that displease you?"

Gimli stepped down harder upon Gríma's chest, and the Man whimpered and gibbered like a coward.

Théoden looked down at the sword for a moment, and then he pulled it from the scabbard, growing taller and stronger with every inch of shining steel revealed.

Éowyn wept, her face alight with joy.

"Théoden-King!" shouted the guard, and it was echoed by all in the Hall.

Théoden whipped the sword clear of the scabbard and looked up at it, his hand clasped firmly around the grip with no faltering and no frailty. His arm lifted into the air, and he cried out in a great voice:

"Arise now, arise, Riders of Theoden!  
Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward.  
Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!  
Forth Eorlingas!"

The cheer that arose was deafening, and Thorin found himself joining in, roaring his approval beside his star. It seemed to him that their voices, both of them deep and dark, shook the earth beneath their feet. The higher, strident cry of the Elf soared above the rumble of Dwarven voices, sending the shout spiralling into the rafters.

"Let food for my guests be set on the board beside me. The host rides today. Send the heralds forth! Let them summon all who dwell nigh! Every man and strong lad able to bear arms, all who have horses!" Théoden kissed the brow of the golden-haired woman, and staggered down the steps. "Your King is himself once more!"

Then his face darkened and his eyes landed upon the quaking Gríma with murderous intent.

"Now you're in for it, my lad," murmured Gimli.

"I have only ever wished to serve you, my lord," he quavered. "Have pity on one worn out in your service. Send me not from your side! I at least will stand by you when all others have gone. Do not send your faithful Gríma away!"

"You have my pity," said Théoden. "I go myself to war with my men. I bid you come with me and prove your faith."

"Dear lord!" cried Wormtongue. "It is as I feared. This wizard has bewitched you. Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your treasure? None to guard the Lord of the Mark?"

Théoden's face twisted, and he kicked out at Wormtongue awkwardly with limbs made weak from long inactivity. "If this is witchcraft," he growled, "it is far more wholesome that your foul whisperings!"

It was with extreme satisfaction that Thorin watched the King throw the traitorous snake from his Hall. "Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" he roared, and he raised his sword.

"No, my lord!" Aragorn stepped forward, and his face was grave. "No. Let him go."

"Foolishness," Thorin growled, echoed by Gimli. "Kill the stinking creeping thing and be done with him!"

"Enough blood has been spilled on his account," Aragorn said, and Théoden glowered at him, swaying slightly in the harsh winds.

"Even a traitor may yet have the chance to prove himself," whispered Gandalf, his lips motionless and his eyes fixed upon Thorin. "And once dead, it is rather difficult to become alive again. Have pity, Thorin. Gríma is not the author of this misery. He is only a messenger."

Thorin gritted his teeth. "I know what you would have me think," he grated. "I myself have cast out a traitor wrongfully, and my Bilbo took pity on a likewise vile wretch. You would have me treat this Man in that vein. Yet let me tell you, Gandalf, that if my madness had been the work of any creature of living flesh, I would have struck its head from its shoulders without a second thought."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows rose. " _Your_ Bilbo?"

Thorin's jaw snapped shut, and he steadfastly stared over the great basin of Rohan, his tongue heavy as lead.

"Well, well," Gandalf murmured, and he smiled to himself. "Will wonders never cease?"

Thorin ignored him, even as Ori and Bifur sent worried eyes in Thorin's direction.

"Infuriating old baggage," Frerin muttered, and Thorin's lips quirked. He sent a quick grateful glance down at his young brother, before a commotion brought his attention back to the Men. "What happened?"

"Wormtongue spat on Aragorn's hand," growled Bifur. "I should have his beard for that!"

"If he had one," said Ori hotly. "I should shave him bald!"

"Shekûn," Thorin spat, watching the black-robed figure fleeing away. "At least he is gone, and we are well-rid of him."

"I don't know," Frerin said, squinting into the cool light. "I'll wager we'll see him again."

"Trouble always has a way of coming back to you," agreed Ori.

"Shândabi," Bifur muttered to himself, and scowled so ferociously and wildly it was almost as though he were still burdened by the axe in his head.

Aragorn washed his hands clean in a dipper provided, and straightened as the assembled townsfolk began to cheer their renewed King. Théoden stood straight and proud, old and yet strong and hale. His head lifted against the sweet fierce winds of Rohan that stirred his restored thick yellow-white hair, and he looked upon Aragorn with approval, and yet with a question in his eyes.

A jolt stirred Thorin. "He will no longer be able to hide himself, no," he said, and stepped closer to where Aragorn returned Théoden's gaze, evenly and without pride nor rancour. "Théoden recognises him from somewhere."

"Didn't someone say that he had been to Rohan before?" said Frerin.

"Aye, but I cannot remember who," said Thorin, and he hoped for Aragorn's sake that he would not reject who he was always meant to be. "It is difficult for him. He does not wish to be made a King, but a King he is."

"I should think you find that somewhat hard to understand," Gandalf murmured. Thorin shot him glare.

"I do find it difficult, yes," he snapped back. "Is it any surprise?"

"Peace, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf said. "I mean no offense. Aragorn walks a path of his own, not in your footsteps, though many of your ways have similar scenery and similar burdens. Allow him his own choices. He will do well."

"I do not doubt it," Thorin sighed, and he turned to see the shape of Wormtongue far below, pushing a black horse as fast as possible from the citadel. "I would spare him some of the pains I suffered, however, if I could."

Gandalf's blue eyes softened. "That is kind of you."

"It is the only thing to do," Thorin said, lifting his chin.

The smile that touched the Wizard's bearded lips was satisfied. "Yes, you have changed indeed. I find that I am pleased. Well done, Thorin son of Thráin. You do your people proud."

Thorin stared until Frerin nudged him to close his mouth and stop gawking.

"Where is Théodred?" said Théoden suddenly, looking around. "Where is my son?"

By the look on the face of Éowyn, Thorin already knew the answer.

The King was led away with gentle hands, and the guard that reminded Thorin so of Dwalin came before the travellers and bowed sharply. "I am Gamling," he said gruffly. "Rooms will be put aside for you. Will you wash and refresh yourselves before the meal?"

Aragorn shrugged, unconcerned. His eyes still followed the bent head of Théoden, his brows drawn together in thought.

Gimli's eyes brightened. "Aye, that would be a kindness indeed. I feel as though I have been carrying all the dust of Rohan in my beard these past few days."

"I will stay with the King," said Gandalf, looking after where Éowyn had led the sorrowing Théoden away. "He will need a friend at this time, and I may be able to provide answers where others have not. Legolas, Gimli, I will see you at table. Do not soak too long, else I should be forced to come looking!"

Gimli scowled. "And that would be the last thing anyone, Wizard or no, ever saw," he muttered.

Gandalf looked amused. "Dwarves," he said fondly. "Just as proper as Hobbits in their way. Legolas, do try not to shock him too much. Farewell until dinner!"

"This way," said Gamling, and he led them from the great Hall to a network of smaller corridors. He glanced at them curiously now and then, though he was mostly successful at halting it before it became a stare.

"Something amiss, Master Gamling?" asked Aragorn innocently.

Gamling coughed, and then he said in a gruff voice, "no, not at all. Only I've never seen such folk in Rohan before. Well, seen plenty o' Men, o' course. Just not with such companions."

"It is long years indeed since my kindred visited these lands," said Legolas.

"Not so long for mine," Gimli said. "I read that many Dwarven caravans came through Rohan searching for work after the fall of Erebor, though there was little enough in a land that neither ploughs nor reaps. Still, I believe there was some blacksmithing done in those days."

"You would be right," Thorin muttered, looking up at the Man.

Gimli's mouth tightened, the only sign that he had heard.

"Forgive me," Gamling said, and he bowed once more before clearing his throat. "Here is the bathing-house. There will be hot water in a few moments, but the boilers must be stoked."

"Cold is more than preferable," said Legolas eagerly, though Gimli shuddered.

"Speak for yourself, laddie. If there's hot water, I'm having it."

"I should have thought your blood warm enough already, Gimli," Legolas teased, and the Dwarf snorted as he entered the room.

"You keep up that sort of talk, twitterpated Elf, and it'll soon be _you_ in hot water."

Aragorn smiled, shaking his head. "You are both ridiculous," he announced, and began to strip his belt and leathers from himself. "Anyone would think you were still at loggerheads."

Gimli grinned, beginning to unlace his travelling tunic. "Just keeping up appearances, Aragorn. Don't want anyone to think I've gone soft now, do I?"

The Elf walked towards the baths with a dreamy look on his face, his clothes falling like leaves. As the last piece fell, Gimli blinked, and then he made a strangled noise and turned his back. "Legolas!" he gasped.

Thorin clapped his hands over Frerin's eyes.

"Did you see anything?" whispered Frerin.

"I have my eyes shut," Thorin muttered.

"I've had my eyes shut since they walked in here," Ori confessed from behind them.

"I haven't," said Bifur, with relish.

"What is the matter, mellon nin?" Legolas said, and he made a throaty sound of enjoyment. The splash of water reached their ears. "Oh, that is beyond compare. What is it that ails you? You should wash it away – oh, it is a joy to be clean!"

"You're not _decent!"_ Gimli spluttered.

Legolas' frown could be heard in his voice. "We have bathed in streams before..."

"Yes, and you kept your..." Gimli broke off, and Thorin could feel the embarrassment radiating off him in waves. "It's not done," he finally muttered.

"Ah, I see now what Gandalf meant," Aragorn said, and his voice lilted with restrained laughter. "Legolas, you had best stay in the water until Gimli is finished. I think his ears will catch alight should you walk about any more!"

Gimli actually _squeaked,_ and Ori groaned.

"That's it, I'm leaving," he announced. "I am supposed to be watching over _Gimli,_ not some indecent shameless Elven display! Dori would be appalled."

"Take Frerin with you," said Thorin, his eyes still closed.

"What? No! Nadad, that's not fair!"

"You are _forty_ - _eight,"_ Thorin snapped, and Frerin made a noise of exasperation.

"Yes, all right, my body is forty-eight, but _I_ am two hundred and sixty-eight when you add it all up, that _has_ to count for something...!"

"Move," Thorin barked, and Frerin's next whine left no illusions as to how old he truly was.

"Thoooorinnnn!" he wailed.

" _Now!"_

"You are such a bully," Frerin muttered, and then the sense of them leaving made Thorin's eyes flicker open.

Bifur was still with him, but he was looking mightily uncomfortable as well. And in the middle of the room stood Gimli, his brigandine in his hands and a violent blush on his cheeks. Thorin noticed with a swoop to his stomach that Gimli had lost even _more_ flesh. The long chase across the Emyn Muil and the plains of Rohan had etched his muscles as though with diamond. His massive arms and chest looked prodigious above his thick flat belly, ridged and taut, covered in a fine soft line of narrowing red hair.

"Come on, Gimli," Aragorn said gently. "Legolas will not offend further, I swear it."

"Better not," Gimli grunted, and he shucked his boots quickly before his hands hesitated over the braids of his beard. He looked up. "You'd best not say that you've seen me with my hair unbound," he said slowly. "That's not really done either, except by family."

Legolas had sat up in his bath and was watching Gimli's fingers with avid fascination. "You have many more tattoos than even I expected," he commented, his blond hair seal-slick against his fine-boned head.

Gimli glanced down at those without much concern. "Aye, well, those are no secret, I suppose," he said. "Just the hair. And the..." He blushed again, and went on to say, "I will _not_ be removing my breechcloth, and let it be settled at that."

Legolas tilted his head. "Why so shy? Elves need no such privacy."

"Well, Dwarves do," Gimli snapped, and he turned his back again to gingerly pick at the laces of his trousers.

"Farn, Legolas," Aragorn whispered, sinking into his own tub. "He is as he is, and such questions will only distress."

Legolas looked as though he would rather not be silent, but he was quickly distracted by the three tattoos that spread over the short, strong bones of Gimli's shoulder-blades. "Are those the mourning-marks you spoke of, Gimli?"

"Aye," Gimli sighed, and then he quirked an eyebrow. "Mahal save me from the curiosity of Elves, Lord," he murmured. "He will drive me to distraction!"

"He is being coarse and impolite," Thorin muttered back. "Du bekâr, my star."

Gimli smiled, and then he straightened and let his trousers drop as well, though as promised his breechcloth was still in place. He turned, and took a step towards the baths. "Which has the hot water?"

"That one," said Aragorn, lazily pointing, before he sunk underneath the water and lay as though swooning in bliss.

Finally Thorin was granted a full view of the tattoos across Gimli's shoulder-blades, and he lurched backwards in shock. There, inked into Gimli's pale skin over the ridges and bumps of that thick, Dwarven spine was the symbol that had adorned his beads and weapons, the one his father had carved when he was born. Either side of his symbol, Fíli's and Kíli's flared over each blade as though they flanked him even as they had always done in life, Fíli's on the right, Kíli's on the left. Gimli's mourning marks were from the _Battle of Five Armies._

"Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu," he choked, and Bifur breathed out an oath under his breath and stepped close.

"Zabadel," he said gently. "That was well-done of him."

"He should have marks for Óin, for Balin," Thorin said, a stone lodged in his chest and in his throat. "Not me. Not for me."

Gimli paused in moving towards his bath, his thick legs planted upon the wooden floor. "Aye, for you," he murmured, and let his fiery hair spill over his face. "Your loss wounded me deeply, Lord, and I needed a mark to carry your memory always. Are you surprised?"

"Do you speak to your kin again?" Legolas whispered. Gimli glanced over at him, and then ruthlessly schooled his eyes forward once more, clambering into his tub (though it was a little too high to manage it gracefully).

"Aye," he answered, studiously averting his eyes from the Elf. "My lord finds my marks something of a shock. One of them is for him, you see."

Legolas leaned forward again, his eyes shining. "Which?"

"The centre one," Gimli said and he turned his back upon Legolas once more.

"What is the matter with looking at me?" Legolas said after a beat. There was a note of hurt in his tone. "Am I so ugly to your eyes?"

Gimli paused, and then he sighed. Cupping his great hands, he brought some water up to spill over the long coppery fall of his hair and then smoothed it back. "No, Legolas," he said in a voice that rumbled softly through the warm, close air. "No you are not. Elves are the fairest of all beings, surely you know that already! It is simply not done amongst Dwarves. We are a secretive people, and our jealousy extends to many things."

Legolas tilted his head, and his voice shook very slightly as he said, "Then you find me fair?"

Gimli hesitated. Then he grinned. "As fair as any horse in Rohan!"

Legolas shook his fair head, smiling ruefully. "No doubt many in Rohan think that a fine compliment, but I know better to expect such from a Dwarf," he said. Then his eyes narrowed at Gimli. "You are more lithe than I had expected, my friend."

Gimli scrubbed at his head roughly, and he snorted again. "That's why it's known as _armour,_ lad. We don't muck about with it."

Legolas ducked his face away, and he began to scoop water up and over his torso. To Thorin's eyes he seemed unfinished: too long, too pale, utterly hairless and strangely elongated. "It is another of the old lies then, I expect," he said to himself, and the expression in his eyes was one that Thorin could not place.

"You natter like a pair of quarrelling birds. Please, my friends, do not make me beg for peace," Aragorn said, his face floating above the water and his eyes closed. His face was, for once, restful.

Legolas and Gimli met each others' eyes, and chuckling softly, they bent to their baths in comfortable silence.

* * *

"No, no, no! I will _not_ be sent to the upper sconces like some tawdry apprentice with hardly a growth on her cheeks!" Bomfrís stamped her foot and glared up at the Elf.

"We would be able to match our waves," Laerophen said coldly. "Your refusal is childish, and shows an ill-temper."

" _Ill-temper!"_ she exploded, and Thrór pinched his nose.

"This is ridiculous," muttered Dís from her place at the edge of the war-room. "They can barely be in the same room together. She is too easily incensed, and he is far too arrogant."

  
__

Bomfrís, by [feignedsobriquet](http://feignedsobriquet.tumblr.com/post/65376755338)  


Dáin shrugged philosophically. "Well, he _is_ an Elf."

"Lady Bomfrís," said the Stonehelm imploringly. "No one wishes to send you from the fray. Your skills are highly respected. In fact, that is why Lord Laerophen suggests placing you and your best archers in the more difficult position..."

"Difficult, pah!" she said, tossing her ginger head. She whirled upon the Prince and poked him firmly in the breastbone with her finger. "I have shot from every window in Erebor, and I tell you now that the lowest sconces are the more difficult. The sight-lines are worse, the angle tricky, the wind howls around the lower battlements! You need skilled archers there, not above! Any twit can send an arrow into an army from up there, but it will take talent not to send your arrow straight into the battlement crews from the lower sconces. Why do you not listen to me, highness? Are you so Elven now?"

The Stonehelm drew himself up, his thick neck flushing and his beard bristling. "How dare you..." he began.

"All right, stop it," Dáin said wearily. "Bomfrís, you might be right, but you're not makin' any friends with that attitude. For a moment I almost mistook you for a Durin there."

She glowered, before dropping a very, _very_ stiff curtsey. "Your majesty," she said in an icy voice.

"I'll talk to Bombur," Dís said, rubbing at her grey beard and sighing. "I still cannot understand how two such easygoing Dwarrows as he and Alrís produced such a keg of fire-powder."

"Ours is not to know why," Dáin agreed, watching the young Dwarrowdam storm away. "She's not used t' so many others, that's certain. She's spent too much time on her own."

"Perhaps that's it," Dís said, and she got to her feet. She was beginning to move more slowly, and it broke Thrór's heart to see it.

"I apologise if I have offended the lady," said Laerophen, though his voice was haughty and no apology was in his eyes.

"Lord Laerophen," Dáin began, but he was interrupted.

"Listen to her!" the Stonehelm hissed at the Elf, his face tight and angry. "She's right. This is our home, and she knows every inch of it. Remember _that_ before you disparage her, you arrogant creature, or I shall not be held accountable for my actions!"

Then he gave the war-room a contemptuous glance, before sweeping away after Bomfrís.

"Well!" said Dís, open-mouthed.

Dáin smiled behind his hand. "Ach, he's gone on her, and she can't see it at all. Don't pay it any mind."

"Not that," she said, and she swallowed. "He... he just reminded me of someone, that's all. I never knew he had it in him."

The old blue eyes were shrewd and compassionate as Dáin fixed his gaze upon his cousin and First Advisor. "Aye, no doubt. Don't forget, my son is a Thorin too."

"I never have," she said, before she left as well.

Thrór glanced between the fuming, tense Elf and the old King, alone in the room but for the silent shape of Orla at the doors. "Well," said Dáin cheerfully. "Now that all the emotional young people have gone, what would you say to a cup o' wine?"

Laerophen frowned down at Dáin for a moment, before he sat abruptly. "Please. _Please."_

Thrór chuckled, and nodded at Dáin. "Well done, King Under the Mountain," he murmured, before the sound of raised voices in the corridor caught his attention. Curious, he left the two and followed the shouting until he came across Bomfrís and the Stonehelm in a side-corridor.

"...let him!" Bomfrís was saying, her teeth gritted. "I may not be a noble or even a great talent like my sister, but I am the leader of the archers of Erebor. I should have been listened to!"

"I agree," the Stonehelm hissed, and he reached out and grasped her sleeve. "Bom... Lady Bomfrís, I agree. I shouted at the lot of them the minute you left the room! No doubt my father will have words to say to me, but I could not let it stand..."

"You tried to _defend that Elf to me!"_ she snarled. "Which am I to believe: that which I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears, or that which you now say?"

The Stonehelm let her wrist drop and ran his hands through his hair. "Both!" he said, and made a noise of extreme frustration. "Both are true, Bom.. Lady Bomfrís, I would never lie to you, never!"

_Bomfrís and Thorin Stonehelm, by[Jeza-Red](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/76944832827/jeza-red-sansukh-of-course-d-young-thorin) _

"Stop _calling_ me that!" she shouted. "I am no Lady! I am just Bomfrís – just the archer Bomfrís, daughter of Alrís, child of a cook and a tanner!"

"I would always call you Bomfrís, if I could," the Stonehelm blurted, and then he rocked back and tried to stare at his own mouth in horror.

She gaped at him. Thrór privately thought it a very unattractive look.

"Bomfrís," the Stonehelm said helplessly, and then he groaned and turned away. "I am sorry. I am sorry for anything I may have said or done that has caused you any offense. I would rather shoot myself in the foot than..."

"Shut up," she said faintly. Then her fingers crept over to touch his, the arrow-calluses drifting over the back of his hand. "Just... just be quiet for a second, will you?"

Thorin Stonehelm's mouth snapped shut with a click, and he looked upon Bomfrís, daughter of Alrís, as though she were a million Arkenstones.

"When did that happen?" she said wonderingly to herself, and then her face paled. "But... but you're the _Crown Prince!"_

He swallowed, and nodded.

"I..." she said, and bit her lip. Her long braid was coming askew where it looped around her chin. "But - but I'm just Bomfrís. You're going to be King!"

The Stonehelm closed his eyes. "Not for a good long while yet, I hope," he said roughly, and her hand flew up to her mouth.

"Your father," she said in a weak voice, and he nodded slowly.

"Bomfrís," he said again, as though her name was the answer to a question he had been asking all his life. Then he looked down at his feet and heaved a great sigh. "Bomfrís, I am the Crown Prince, yes. My father is the King, and so I shall follow one day... but I am also _Thorin."_

Her fingers were trembling, and she mouthed the name beneath them. Then she lifted her eyes to his face and said, "Thorin."

The Stonehelm looked up, hope shining in his eyes like stars.

Thrór smiled gently and fondly, and remembered the wonderful day upon which a beautiful and irritable Dwarrowdam had lobbed a set of silver clasps at his head.

At that moment a huge shout came from the duty-guard, and Thrór whirled. His heart began to pound. Surely the armies of Sauron had not reached them. It was too soon, too soon! There was too much to be done. They were not ready!

He followed the two young Dwarrows through the tunnels up to the battlements. Dwalin son of Fundin had brought out the old Horn of Farin, and he was blowing it with all his strength.

"Look!" said Dori, nearly dancing in place. He took up one of Dwalin's young children and sat them upon his shoulders. "You see down there, amongst the grass! Do you see who has finally returned?"

Thrór peered down into the golden light of afternoon. Behind him, a soft gasp of joy sounded, and he turned to see Mizim daughter of Ilga crying with happiness.

"Look, my darling daughter," she sobbed, and she held tight to Gimrís. "Look, Gimizhith, my wild little treasure! It's _Glóin._ Your grandfather has finally come home!"

Dwalin waved his arm from the highest platform, and the small moving figure below waved in return. "You took your time!" he roared.

"Well, there's a whole damned forest between here an' Rivendell, not to mention the bloody Misty Mountains!" Glóin shouted back, and Mizim laughed and wept simultaneously to hear her husband's voice again, her arms wrapped around Gimizh. The little boy was squirming and hollering fit to bring down the Mountain. "Still, I found another Troll-hoard, an' there's a very nice little silver-lode just near the Carrock I think would bear investigatin' at some later point."

"Never changes," Mizim wept, smiling from ear to ear. "Oh, my darling old bear!"

Gimrís had her face buried in Bofur's shoulder, but she nodded enthusiastically even so. Bofur tightened his arms around her, grinning. "Now then, my ruby," he said gently, and rubbed her back. "Now then."

"Don't you 'now then' me, you sweet behatted idiot," she mumbled, and her arms wrapped around him tightly and clung on.

"Grandpa!" Gimizh shrieked, and the sound soared through the air along with the ringing notes of the Horn of Farin. " _Grandpa's home!"_

  
  
Gloin and Mizim, by [Fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/121631989575/dont-mind-me-just-sitting-here-thinking-about)  


* * *

"Oh no," Fíli said through dry lips that were numb with dread. "Oh, merciful Mahal, _no."_

" _Precioussssss..."_

* * *

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Farn – enough  
> Mellon nin – my friend.  
> Laerophen – Tree Song
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Shekûn – the craven (coward) Man  
> Kherumel – name of all names  
> Nath – to giggle  
> ânûn – the river (man)  
> Zabadel – Lord of Lords  
> Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu – my fiery son of the heart  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Shândabi! – Agreed!  
> Sakhab - look  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> azaghâl belkul – mighty warrior  
> Sudûn – Danger (man)
> 
> _Some dialogue taken from the Chapter, 'The King of the Golden Hall' and from the films._
> 
> _Yes, I went there with a bathing scene ;)_
> 
> _Farin was the common paternal ancestor between Balin & Dwalin, and Óin & Glóin._
> 
> _Thank you so, so, SO much for all your support, everyone. I couldn't keep doing this (especially through family explosions) without all your wonderful reviews and kudos. You are my sunshine._
> 
> And now, a comic!
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66173782418/elves-and-dwarves-have-some-very-different-views)  
>   
> _In the Bathhouses, by[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66173782418/elves-and-dwarves-have-some-very-different-views)_


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello all! Sorry for the delay. I am in fact buying a house right now (OHGOD ACTUAL REAL ADULTHOOD IS THIS THE REAL LIFE) and it is eating up every last little moment of time I have._   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> __  
>  Art and Artiness
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The magnificence that is [Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com) has done it again. She has drawn [Mahal being a Good Dad to all his hairy angsty little kiddies](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/63441988103/this-makes-far-more-sense-in-my-headxd-newest). This is utterly gorgeous and gives me far, FAR too many Mahal & Frerin feels for it to be legal, because Jeza ~~is a wizard~~ is so phenomenally talented it makes us mere mortals weep. 
> 
> AUGH AUGH AUGH. The astonishing [pixolith](http://pixolith.tumblr.com) has drawn the most amazingly [stunning and drop-dead BEAUTIFUL Gimris](http://pixolith.tumblr.com/post/63755177644/gimris-from-determamfidds-super-awesome-story). THIS IS HER. THIS IS GIMRIS. THIS IS THE FIERY DWARROWDAM WITH THE SHARP TONGUE AND THE CRUSTY OUTER SHELL AND THE RELUCTANTLY GOOEY CENTRE. THIS IS GIMLI'S FAMOUS BEAUTY OF A LITTLE SISTER. GO. NOW. AND. SEE. 
> 
> *breathes heavily* Okay. Now - a chapter!
> 
> ~~Wish me luck augh god talking to banks is draining my soul ugh~~

Frerin was waiting in Thorin's room when he returned, his arms folded and a ferocious scowl on his young face. Thorin paused as he opened his door and took in his younger brother. Then he sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand, his beard ruffling under his palm.

"Hullo, nadad," he said.

"Thorin," Frerin greeted him flatly. Then his eyebrows lifted. "Are you all right?"

"I am tired," Thorin admitted, and he sat down on his bed and pushed back his hair. His arms felt heavy and sluggish. "It has been a rather long day."

"Watching all those things that I am apparently too young to see," Frerin said rather snippily, and his lips flattened into a straight line.

Thorin looked up. "I am sorry if I hurt you, but I could not allow..."

"Thorin, even if I was truly the adolescent I was when I died, I was old enough to fight in a war," Frerin pointed out, and a little of his hurt seeped into his face. Despite his words, Frerin seemed younger than ever, and so _open_ , so emotionally unguarded it made Thorin ache from all the could-have-beens. Frerin lifted his chin, his blue eyes flashing. "I think I'm old enough to decide what I can see and not see."

True. "I am sorry," Thorin said again, and he held out his arm. "It is... a compulsion with me. I must always protect you, no matter what. You are my nadadith."

"I know, I know," grumbled Frerin, but he sat down beside Thorin and allowed him to wrap his arm around his smaller shoulders. "I wasn't going to look at the stupid Elf anyway. I wanted to see if Aragorn had any markings. Did he?"

"No," Thorin said. "The Men of the West do not practice the custom, though I seem to remember that the Haradrim learned it from the Blacklocks and Stiffbeards centuries ago. I cannot recall where I read that."

"Probably one of Balin's boring etiquette books."

"Probably." Thorin squeezed Frerin's shoulders, and then looked down at Frerin's face. His brother was no longer looking quite so annoyed, and a pensive light had crept into his eyes. "I will endeavour to restrain my impulses where you are concerned, though I cannot promise I can contain them completely."

"That's the most honest answer I've heard from you in a long time," Frerin replied with wry resignation. "Thank you, I think."

Thorin smiled.

"Now, back to you." Frerin turned in the circle of Thorin's arm and fixed him with a serious look. "Talk to me."

Thorin's first thought was to deflect, to pull up a haughty demeanour and ignore the question, or to answer that he _was_ talking to Frerin already. But that was no answer at all, and his brother deserved better from him. He sighed again, and his free hand began to clench upon his knee. "It... is difficult," he said slowly. "Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, there is something to bring back the memories of the madness. I know how Father and Grandfather feel, now. It is a shameful thing to remember what you became."

Frerin did not answer, but sat and listened. His blue eyes did not judge at all, and that gave Thorin heart.

"I..." Thorin swallowed. "That time, that madness – it was _me_. No matter how you interpret it, Frerin, the Dwarrow who was cruel and vicious and full of pride was still _me._ I can remember holding my Hobbit over the battlements and shaking him until his teeth rattled. I remember throwing every chance of peace away in my arrogance. No sacrifice was too much and no word too strong. I knew beyond all doubt that my actions were right. I thought that all I needed was the will to see them through."

He stared at the grate in which no fire burned. "What a fool I was."

"Don't take all the blame for yourself," said Frerin softly. "I watched the whole thing, remember? Not a single person acted perfectly. Not a single one. You did offer to negotiate, but Bard would not address your concerns about our heritage and inheritance. He simply brushed away your questions without answering them. The Elvenking would not put away his weapons or soldiers. Even your Bilbo didn't exactly cover himself with glory – when he first pocketed the Arkenstone he meant to _keep_ it, not trade it away to buy peace. He wanted it even though he _knew_ what it meant to the Dwarves of Erebor. He _knew._ You weren't the only one acting foolishly, Thorin. There's enough blame to go around – and that's not even counting the bloody dragon."

"I understand that, I just-" Thorin broke off, and his jaw clenched. Frerin scooted closer, tucking his smaller body against Thorin's side and leaning his golden head upon Thorin's shoulder. "It is difficult," Thorin said eventually.

"I'll bet," Frerin said, and he laid a hand upon Thorin's arm. "Tell me?"

"I wish that it had felt different, somehow," Thorin said in a halting voice, the words rasping and low in his throat. "But I didn't. I felt like me, as much as I have ever done. I was myself, and it was only after the madness lifted that I could see how insidious it was, how it had crept up on me unawares. We have always been on guard against the weakness of our line. I saw what it did to Grandfather: how a strong and mighty King who had built such splendour and security was reduced to staring at his hoard day and night, little more than a beggar scrambling after a jewel even as a dragon killed his wife. I knew the dangers and thought myself above them."

Frerin waited patiently for Thorin to continue, allowing him the time and space to get himself under control.

"But it is a slow poison, not a fast one," he said, and studied his hands to keep from meeting Frerin's eyes. He had gained new marks from the tempering process for Bilbo's pens, and there was a shiny burn across the pad of his thumb, obscuring the whorls of his thumbprint. "It creeps into you until it is a part of you, and you never realise it is there at all. You cannot fight it with swords nor words. I saw enemies all around me, but I never realised that the true enemy was myself."

"No, Thorin," Frerin whispered, and Thorin shook his head sharply. His brother subsided, but he could feel his reluctance. It took Thorin a few moments to find his next painful words, and his throat tried to swallow them several times before he was finally able to get them out.

"I hate that I was so weak," he finally rasped. "I hate that I succumbed. More than anything, I hate that it was _me,_ that such lunacy can seep into me without my conscious knowledge... until one day I find myself raising my hand against..." He stopped and hung his head. His chest ached.

  
Thorin finally talks, by [Shipsicle](http://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/151990831485/sansukh-ch-23-thorin-finally-talks-im-so-proud)  


Frerin squeezed Thorin's arm. "You're not seeing the whole picture, brother," he said against his shoulder. "You always were a tankard-half-empty type."

Thorin smiled, though it was humourless. "I fail to see how this tankard could ever be filled, brother."

"See what I mean?" Frerin nudged him, and upon seeing Thorin's misery he sagged a little and stopped trying for humour. "No, I mean you're not looking at everything together. The world is not black and white; it is not _all_ or _nothing_. You're focusing so hard on the blackest part that you are absolutely ignoring everything else."

Thorin lifted his head. "Else?"

Frerin squeezed his arm again, sharply this time. "So. The curse of our line got you, and you acted as many of us have before. Do you consider our father weak, then? He also went mad."

Thorin nearly threw his brother from him. "How dare you! Our father was tortured into madness by Sauron himself!"

"And Grandfather?" Frerin insisted. "Is he weak, then? His was the gold-madness as well, after all."

"Our grandfather built the richest and most stable kingdom in Arda in a scant one hundred years! He was a King the likes of which we had not seen in millennia!" Thorin half-rose from his bed, his voice growing louder and more strident.

Frerin grinned at him.

Thorin halted, his blood still hot, before he scowled at Frerin and roughly tousled his head. "Yes, I take your meaning."

Frerin's grin did not falter. "So, what would you say if I told you of a Dwarrow who built a prosperous life in exile for his people, fought and defeated the enemies of his line, protected our heritage and our history from those who only saw it as meaningless spoils, regained one of our ancestral homes and fought bravely in bitter wars for another, and set out on a hopeless quest with only twelve other Dwarves and a Hobbit to fight a dragon?"

"I'd say he sounds like an arrogant sod," Thorin muttered, before sitting back down and pulling Frerin close again. "I understand what you are trying to do, Frerin. Mother has said something similar, as have you. I am not so blind these days and I see now that my life was not wasted. It is just... no, you cannot understand. You cannot understand the shame of madness, of knowing that _you_ were mad. It is a stain that will never wash clean. You make me sound so strong, and I know that I am not. I can acknowledge my weakness, now when it is far, far too late. "

"Rubbish," Frerin said, and his voice was growing frustrated. "That's rubbish. You are one of the strongest people I know. How many ways do I have to I tell you that _it was not your fault!_ "

Thorin looked down at him, silent.

Frerin began to list on his fingers, his young voice hot and angry. "One: the gold itself. Our line's weakness aside, have you forgotten the other name for it? _Dragon-sickness._ Smaug made our heritage his bed, Thorin- is it any wonder it mesmerised every single one of your company, half the Men in Lake-Town, and goodness knows how many Elves? Two: the siege. You wanted to negotiate, but - understandably - you wanted the tree-shaggers gone. They wouldn't. Three: Bard wouldn't answer a single one of your questions! They wouldn't even put their weapons down – an entire army against fourteen, and they _knew_ the bloody dragon was dead. There was no reason to come armed. Four-"

"Stop," Thorin said, his voice cracking. "I have heard much of this before. Frerin, it does not change the fact that I was mad. I was _mad._ I cannot even promise that I will never succumb again; that the weakness will not rise up in me, even here in this peaceful and unchanging world."

Frerin bristled. " _Weak!_ Thorin, I am about to strike you. Hiding it away, treating it like it's shameful – _that's_ what hurts you, time and again. You would not treat a physical ailment this way. You take care of those, the way Fundin taught us to, carefully and properly. But this? You push it away and never acknowledge that it's a part of you, and so when anything happens that reminds you of that time, it cuts you to the quick. Your reaction to Boromir, to Théoden, your face whenever anyone speaks of Bilbo, your refusal to ever work gold or silver again: it all chips away at you and makes you angrier and sadder than ever. But Thorin, you can find a way to live with this. You can. You _are_ strong, and I know you can."

"How?" Thorin asked wearily. "I do not want to acknowledge that the gold-madness has ever been a part of me, so why would I ever do such a thing?"

"It could just as easily have taken me, you know," said Frerin bluntly. "It took every Dwarrow in your Company. Talk to them as well. Talk to Grandfather and Father. You can live with it, Thorin. You just need to learn how."

"And my wrongdoings?" Thorin bent his head, letting his hair spill in front of his face. "Am I to live with those as well?"

"Everyone else does," Frerin said, and his small hand tentatively reached out and tucked a swath of Thorin's hair behind his ear. Then he gently yanked upon one of Thorin's braids. "Having done wrong doesn't make you a bad person. Everyone is a mix of the two, and nobody is wholly good or wholly bad, not even you. Everyone makes mistakes, nadad."

"For a very long time I did not have such a luxury," Thorin said, low and pensive.

"Yes, yes, I know. I _saw._ You had to be perfect and stronger than the very bones of the earth." Frerin patted clumsily at his face, and then his lips quirked into a grin, his braided cheeks twitching. "Is it so terrible to be as fallible and imperfect as the rest of us?"

Thorin let out a long breath, and strangely, felt lighter. "I suppose not. When did you become so wise, little brother?"

"Excuse me? I've always been the clever one. Don't you remember? 'Oh no, Thorin, we shouldn't pour curds into the visiting Iron Hills' ambassador's bed'; 'Thorin, Dís will kill us if we use her favourite comb to brush spilled wax from the carpets'; 'Oh please, Thorin, don't challenge the sons of Fundin to a drinking competition, they're famous for their hollow legs'-ack!"

Frerin squawked as Thorin leaned over and picked up his smaller brother bodily, hauling him into a headlock and scruffing his golden hair. "Tho-RIN!" he wailed, and Thorin chuckled. "Not fair, not fair, not fair! Just because you're bigger...!"

Thorin leaned back. "Does it bother you that much? Still?"

Frerin blew his hair away from his eyes and then sagged. "Sometimes," he admitted. "I wish I'd grown up. I am so tired of being the smallest."

"If I must learn to live with this," Thorin said, and tapped his forehead to Frerin's. "You can too. You are still my brother, Frerin. Even if you were as small as a Hobbit or as tall as an Elf."

"I suppose," he mumbled, and then glowered up at Thorin. "You are still a giant bully."

"I am reliably informed that no one is perfect," Thorin said, "though if you tell anyone I shall be forced to kill you."

Frerin chuckled. "Oh, Thorin. D'you think there's actually anyone who didn't already know?"

* * *

Fíli wished fervently for his swords, all the skin on the back of his neck prickling with sweat. The creature was as spindly as a spider and as thin as a willow-branch, but he could feel the malice in the thing.

"Wake up," he whispered to the Hobbits. "Wake _up!"_

Frodo and Sam were bundled together in their Elven cloaks and were difficult to see in the dark, even for a Dwarf. Still, Fíli had seen the two pale lamp-like eyes roving over the gullies and crags of the Emyn Muil. Such eyes! Who knew how well the creature could see after all those many centuries alone in the dark?

"Ach, sss!" it whispered, and Fíli shuddered. "Cautious, my precious! More haste, less speed. Where iss it? Where iss it; my Precious, my Precious? It's ours, it is. The thieves, the thieves, the filthy little thieves! Curse them! We hates them."

"Wake up!" Fíli begged, and he gritted his teeth.

The creature was crawling headfirst down the cliff-face like a large pale thing of insect-kind, its soft hands and feet finding holds amongst the razor-sharp rocks. It was nearly upon them. Any minute now.

In a sudden blur of movement, Sam was on his feet with his hands raised, and in a couple of leaps he was on top of Gollum. Still, he found Gollum rather more than he had bargained for, even taken off-guard and by surprise. The creature bit and hissed and spluttered, its long legs and arms winding around him, soft but horribly strong. The long thin fingers wrapped around Sam's neck and began to squeeze inexorably. Sam butted his head backwards, and Fíli cheered aloud as Gollum fell away, hissing again. Sam rolled to his feet and launched, his fists flying.

"That's it!" he crowed.

Sam's advantage did not last long. Gollum sprang for him again, cursing and snarling and grasping, a dreadful light in those pale huge eyes. Sam blanched, but the hands were on him, and the two tussled and rolled amongst the rocks. The creature was savage and as slippery as an eel, and the poor Hobbit was completely out of his depth. Things would have gone badly for the gardener if suddenly there were not a bright little blade flashing in the moonlight.

Frodo's dirt-streaked face was grim. "Let go!" he said. "This is Sting. You've seen it before. Let go, or you'll feel it this time – _Gollum."_

The creature's hands slowly raised, long fingers uncurling from around Sam's throat. Then the hate on its face began to crumple into crushing despair, and it wailed aloud like an infant.

Sam scrambled to his feet to stand behind Frodo, rubbing at his neck. "Right," he puffed, "well, we've a pretty opportunity here, I say. Let's tie it up and leave it!"

"But that would kill us, kill us!" Gollum cried, and then he sobbed and gulped noisily in his throat. "Cruel hard hobbitses, tie us up in the cold hard lands and leave us, _gollum!"_

"No," said Frodo, and Fíli blinked and turned to the Hobbit in surprise. There was a cool, lordly note in the Hobbit's voice that he had not heard before. "If we kill him, we must kill him outright. But we can't do that, not as things are. Poor wretch! He has done us no harm."

"Oh, hasn't he?" Sam muttered, inspecting a bite on his forearm. "Anyways, I'll wager that he meant harm, and still means harm if he gets the chance. Throttle us in our sleep, that's his game!"

"No doubt," Frodo said, Sting still levelled at Gollum's face. "But still, we will not kill him. For now that I see him, I do pity him."

Sam stared at Frodo. "No," he said flatly.

Gollum lifted his head, and hope had begun to creep into his face. It made him look less foul and wicked. Something innocent and long-silenced began to ring in his voice as he said, "yes, yes, wretched we are, precious – wretched and alone! Misery, misery! Hobbits won't kill us, nice Hobbits. We'll be nice to them if they be nice to us! We will come with them, yes. Find them safe paths in the dark, yes we will." Then his straggly, age-spotted head tipped. "And where are they going in these cold hard lands, we wonders?"

Frodo gave him a stern look. "You know that, or you guess well enough. We are going to Mordor - and you know the way."

"Sssss!" Gollum said, and cowered, covering his ears with his hands as if the very name hurt him to hear it. "We guessed, yes, we guessed," he whispered, "and we didn't want them to go, did we? No, precious, not the nice Hobbits. Ashes, ashes and dust, and thirst there is; and pits, pits, pits, and Orcs, thousands of Orcses. Nice Hobbits mustn't go to –ssss- those places."

"Nevertheless, to Mordor I must go," Frodo said, and he drew himself up tall. "Sam, your rope."

Gollum lay quiet as Sam looped the Elven rope over his head. The instant it touched his skin, however, he began to wail and scream, a thin tearing sound, horrible to hear. He writhed and tried to bite at the rope, and cried and howled some more. "What on earth is the matter with you!" Sam finally exploded. "Ninnyhammers and noodles! You'll bring every Orc from here to Barad-dûr down on us with that racket!"

"It burnsss!" Gollum moaned, and he clawed at the ground. "It freezes, it bites! Nasty Elves twisted it, curse them! Nasty cruel Hobbitses! They visits Elves, fierce Elves with bright eyes. Take it off us! It hurts us."

"No, I will not take it off you," said Frodo, "not unless-" He stopped suddenly, and a strange expression crossed his face as he thought.

Fíli frowned. "Something strange is happening to you, Frodo Baggins," he muttered. "But Mahal save me, I am not wise enough to guess what it is. I smell Gandalf's hands all over this."

Frodo fixed Gollum with a stern look, his blue eyes hard and flashing. Fíli was abruptly strongly reminded of Thorin in his more kingly moods, and conceded that perhaps Kíli had a point about their resemblance (at times) – not that he would ever admit it. "There is no promise you can make that I can trust," he told the wretched thing.

"We will swear to do what he wants, yes," Gollum croaked, and his fingers clawed at the earth and at the rope.

"Swear?" said Frodo, eyebrows rising.

Gollum looked up, and a wild, strange light was in his face. "We will swear to serve the master of the Precious," he said, and clutched at Frodo's trouser-leg. "We will swear... on... on the Precious!"

"On the Precious?" Frodo said, soft and dangerous. "How dare you! Think! _One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them."_

Gollum gibbered and cowered, his hands coming up to cover his face. Still he nodded. "On the Precious, the Precious," he whispered.

"Mister Frodo – no!" Sam said, shaking his head urgently.

"Shh, Sam," said Frodo, darting a quick quelling look at the gardener before turning back to the huddled wretch at his feet. "Would you commit your promise to that? It will hold you. But it is more treacherous than you are. It may twist your words. Beware!"

Fíli sucked in a breath at the sudden power in Frodo's voice and the ring of truth in his words. "Definitely wizard business," he said to himself, and scratched at his braided moustache. "Perhaps Thorin or Thráin will know."

Gollum whimpered, but still he repeated, "on the Precious, on the Precious!"

"And what would you promise?"

"To be very very good," said Gollum, crawling to Frodo's feet and grovelling. A shudder ran through Fíli, and his lip curled with distaste. "We will swear never, never to let Him have it. Never! We will save it. But we must swears on the Precious."

"On it?" Frodo's laugh was grim. "No, you shall not. Swear _by_ it, rather. I know that game. You only wish to look upon it, and take it if you could. Now speak your promise!"

"We promises, yes!" Gollum cried, and clutched at Frodo's leg again. "We promises to serve the Master of the Precious. Good master, good Hobbitses, _gollum, gollum!"_ He began to weep and howl, tugging at the rope again.

"Sam, take it off him," Frodo commanded quietly.

"We can't trust him," Sam protested, and Fíli rather agreed with him. "He'll turn on us or run away, first chance he gets. Let's just tie him up an' leave him, promise or no promise."

"No, I cannot break my word to him," Frodo said, and he smiled a distant, absent smile devoid of all warmth. "For good or ill, we are bound together now by cords stronger than any Elven rope."

"If you say so, Mister Frodo," Sam said, and reluctantly he pulled the rope away from Gollum's head.

"We are going to Mordor, Gollum, and you will lead us there," Frodo said, looking into his eyes. "You will take us to the Black Gate."

The creature sat, stunned, for a moment. Then, quick as a flash, he darted away.

"Well, what did I tell you?" Sam said in disgust. "Should have known that a creature like that wouldn't stick by his promises. Still, we're shot of him an' all now."

Frodo looked up at the stony, sharp cliffs that surrounded them, and heaved a sigh.

"Bilbo would be proud," Fíli told the Hobbit. Then he wrinkled his nose. "Thorin would slap you upside the head and call you a dimwitted young fool."

"Yes, as you say, we're rid of him now," Frodo said with another sigh. "Let's get out of this ravine, at any rate."

At that moment, the balding, straggly head poked out from behind a boulder. "Not that way, Hobbitses!" Gollum said brightly. His few blackened teeth stood out in a smile. "Not that way! Follow us, we knows the paths. I found it, I did. Orcs don't use it. Orcs don't know it! They go around, for miles and miles and mileses! Very lucky you finds us, yes. Follow us!"

Frodo gave Sam a look that spoke volumes, and began to climb the cliff to where Gollum beckoned and grinned. A change had come over the cur the minute the rope had been taken from over his head. He spoke with far less hissing and whining, and he spoke directly to the Hobbits and not to his precious self. He cringed and flinched at sudden movements, shying away often and hiding; but he was friendly and indeed painfully eager to please, capering and cackling if Frodo even looked upon him kindly. Fíli was repulsed, but at the same time an odd surge of grief in his chest gave him pause.

"What manner of creature were you, that fell so far and for so long," he murmured, studying the thing: the whip-marks on its back, the protruding bones.

Sam gave the creature a suspicious look as he passed, and Fíli felt a certain unity of spirit with the brave little gardener. "You and me both," he said fervently.

"Nice Hobbit," said Gollum, crouching and smiling. Sam shouldered his pans and shook his head.

"We're goin' to regret this, you mark my words," he said under his breath. "As sure as eggs is eggs!"

"Samwise Gamgee, I name you an honorary Dwarf for extreme practicality and foresight," Fíli muttered, and he resigned himself to more climbing as the moon slowly slipped through the sky, disappearing behind them as they made their halting way east.

* * *

The next morning, Thorin awoke slowly and lay upon his pallet for a few moments, staring at the ceiling and letting his mind wander.

"Yes, I will acknowledge my weaknesses, my love," he murmured eventually, and he smiled at the toss of tawny curls and self-important little sniff that greeted this in his imagination. "But neither shall I allow them to rule me. I need no longer embody everything we had lost. I may simply be _me,_ as has not been permitted these many years, and shall find that I am many things both good and bad intermingled. Perhaps some of them may even surprise you, my clever thief."

His imaginary Bilbo's eyebrow rose, and then the lips tilted and the beardless cheeks crinkled in a grin. "Yes, just as you surprised me. Call it my revenge," Thorin chuckled, and bade the memory of his Hobbit farewell for the day, swinging his legs over his pallet and stretching.

There was a knock at his door. "Thorin, are you awake?" came the voice of his mother.

"Yes," he answered, and pulled off his sleep-tunic, scratching at his stomach.

Frís entered, and then blew out a breath between her teeth. "Sometimes I forget, and then sometimes you go and do a thing like this," she said, waving a hand at his torso. "I blame that shorn beard of yours: it is far too easy for me to see you as you were. Take pity on your poor mother and get dressed before I begin to feel ancient."

He smiled and dragged on a shirt, leaving the neck unlaced and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "You are forever young and beautiful, mother, even if your hair turned white. What is it?"

She peered at him, her eyes narrowing. "Well, aren't you in a good mood? Something has happened, hasn't it inùdoy?"

He shrugged. "We should take advantage of it while it persists. Where are my nephews? I feel the need to scare them out of their wits."

She covered a laugh with her hand. "Aye, that would do it," she agreed, and smoothed back his hair fondly. "I haven't seen you so light-hearted since you were young, my steely stormcloud. I do hope it isn't a passing thing."

"Best not tempt fate. We are Longbeards, after all." He smiled again, leaning into her hand. "So, what brings you here?"

She sighed, her blue eyes turning away. "We have another report," she said, and her fingers sectioned half of his hair and began to weave a workmanlike braid he remembered from long ago: messy childish games and food in his hair and beard and Frerin laughing with his mouth full. "Fíli returned from his shift, and he has... unsettling news. I fear that your good mood will not last long."

"Let us see," he said, and gently put his hands atop hers, stilling her braiding. "Tell me."

She sighed once more, and looked up at him. "Frodo and Sam have found a guide out of the Emyn Muil," she said, the words dragging out reluctantly. "They have found and bound Gollum to their service, and even now he leads them towards the Morannon."

Thorin's fingers tightened sharply over hers. "Gollum."

"Yes," she said, and shook her head. "He was made to swear by the Ring, apparently."

"It is the Ring of Power, and any words spoken in its name will be binding," he said, frowning. She made an indistinct noise of protest.

"Now, that is exactly the expression I was hoping to avoid," she mourned, and her hand crept up to smooth along the lines upon his brow. "Oh, my dear. I am sorry."

"Not your fault," he said absently, still frowning. Gollum – the treacherous, dangerous little beast that Bilbo had outwitted beneath the Goblin tunnels. A twisted creature driven mad by lust for the Ring. An ancient thing full of wickedness and wretchedness. "Gandalf would have us take pity on it," he muttered, and let Frís' hand go. She paused, and then resumed her braiding upon the other side of his head.

"From what Fíli tells me, he is worthy of pity," she said quietly. "It seems that Gollum is not wholly evil. The Ring cannot destroy all goodness; only bury it."

Thorin's eyes snapped up, and he studied his mother closely. She did not seem to notice, continuing to braid his hair with a preoccupied air. "Have you spoken to Frerin?" he said suspiciously.

"No," she answered, tying off his hair with a leather thong and smoothing down the wisps at his temples that shone, white and flyaway, amongst the dark. "Should I? What has he done now, the little scamp?"

"Don't call him that," he said instantly, and then cringed as his mother's eyes, piercing and perceptive, bored into his. "I mean..."

"Ah," she said under her breath, and then to his surprise she enfolded as much of him as she could in a hug. "Good," she said against his chest, and he brought his arms up to hold her, bemused and lost. "Good."

"What? What is good?" he asked, and she chuckled and fondly gave his chest a pat.

"Just a mother being proud of her boys. That's all," she said, and then smiled up at him. "You have recovered from the news of Gollum far faster than I expected."

"I do not think it has entirely sunk in," he said, and she rolled her eyes.

"Do not play the innocent with me, my son," she said, and tweaked his ear gently. "Something has definitely changed, and for the better. Speak to Fíli later. He could do with your reassurance."

"He is abed now?" Thorin said, and a flicker of worry for his eldest nephew, so loyal and so brave, brushed at his heart.

"Yes, his shift ended at dawn. Kíli watches now. You had best hurry, inùdoy. Your own begins in less than an hour."

Thorin swallowed an oath (it would only see his ear being pinched once more) and began to lace his shirt. "Is there other news?" he said, businesslike once more.

"Glóin has arrived back at Erebor," she said, sitting down upon the stool before his desk. She began to arrange the clutter upon it absently: setting his brushes in line, putting his beads back into their wooden box carved with bluebells and peonies.

"About time," he snorted, tugging on a pair of trousers and looking about for his boots. He found one discarded underneath his pallet, and sat to pull it on. "And how many profitable lodes did he find on his journey?"

"About three, your grandfather says, though no doubt he is keeping the best one a secret," she said, and smiled.

"Hah. What else?"

"Your namesake has found his One in a rather dramatic fashion." She picked up a hammer from his table and raised her eyebrows. "This does not belong in a bedroom, my young Prince."

"Neither young nor a Prince any longer," he retorted, and she waggled it at him.

"Perhaps so, but I am yet tall enough to reach your ear, my lad. Tools belong in smithies, not sleeping rooms."

He blew out a breath between his teeth and strangled another curse. "Yes, 'Amad."

She looked amused. "Oh, such a hardship for you."

"I am glad you recognise it," he said rather haughtily, and spotted his other boot behind the door. Then he blinked. "Wait. Wee Thorin is only thirty-seven. He's but a child!"

She laughed, and then put the hammer back down on his table with a soft _click._ "Your _other_ namesake, dear. Our self-effacing Crown Prince has found the courage to speak out to the object of his affections, and that particular fiery young Dwarrowdam has finally realised why she always argues with him."

"About time, then," he said, and stood. "I had best go to breakfast. Is there more?"

"No," she said. "Although your grandmother has a great deal to say about the ineffectiveness of Elves in general. She is less than impressed with the preparations made in Rivendell, and she cannot understand anything of import in Lothlórien. Do you know of any more Dwarrows who speak Elvish?"

He paused at his door, holding it open so she might exit before him. "Perhaps Gróin might," he said, thinking hard. "He was instrumental in maintaining the peace between the Mountain and the Wood in grandfather's day."

"Ah, well remembered," she said, and led the way towards the great dining hall. "I will ask. Poor Ori: if we mangle his schedule any further, I am half-afraid he will scream loudly enough to bring the Halls down."

"Nori warned us not to irritate him," said Thorin, and he smiled to himself.

She glanced up at him. "Good," she said again, an obscure and proud light in her eyes. Then she kissed his cheek and left him to break his fast.

The whispers and stares all around him from the other assembled Dwarrows had become commonplace by now, and Thorin did not let them disturb him as he made his way to where his brother, cousin and father sat. "Where is grandfather?" he asked.

"Asleep," grunted Thráin. "He watched a long time last night."

"My brother is home," said Óin proudly. "The celebration was worthy of observance."

"I well believe it," Thorin said. "I know your family, after all!"

"That supposed to be an insult?" Óin raised his eyebrows, and then made a dismissive 'pah!' sound between his teeth. "Pitiful, my King."

"Aye, your pitiful King," snorted Thorin. "Do budge over, my pitiful Healer, else you will find yourself wearing that porridge and not eating it."

Frerin choked around a spoonful, and then looked up at Thorin with dancing eyes. "Good," he said.

"Everyone is saying that to me today," grumbled Thorin, reaching for a bowl. Filling it, he looked over at his father. "Where do you watch today?"

"I am at Erebor again," he answered, and pulled at his vast beard ruefully. "From what I hear, it is a boiling pot of high emotion right now."

"Have fun, 'adad," said Frerin, grinning. "I am beginning to feel better and better about Rohan."

"You just want to see that white lady," accused Óin. "I heard you an' Ori gossiping about it."

"Well, so what if I do?" Frerin said, and he sniffed and bent his head back to his porridge.

Thorin bit upon the inside of his cheek, and then turned to Óin. "You are with us this morning, are you not?"

"Aye, an' let's hope there's no damned running," he grumbled.

Nori met them outside the Chamber of Sansûkhul. He nodded in greeting and then gave Thorin a lingering look. "All right, boss?" he asked.

Thorin took his seat, making room for Frerin without thought. "Yes?"

"Huh," Nori said, and scratched at a braided eyebrow. "Good."

Thorin stifled a scream of frustration. "Why does everyone say that this morning?" he muttered.

"It's the lack of thunderous glower, brother," Frerin said, even as the stars rose from Gimlîn-zâram to dance their slow, mesmeric steps before their eyes. "Everyone is wondering if Mahal has replaced you with another Dwarrow behind our backs. Except me, of course, I know better," he added smugly.

Thorin huffed, and dug his fingers into a spot on Frerin's side he remembered as being particularly sensitive. Frerin's yelp followed him into the starlight.

When the light faded, Thorin was standing in the great carved expanse of the Golden Hall. He turned around and around, before spotting a low table at one side. At one end, Legolas and Gimli were seated. Bread and meat lay before them on a platter, and Gimli was helping himself (though it necessitated standing on his chair now and again). The Elf seemed rather put out at the meat, and was half-heartedly nibbling at the bread. Aragorn was pacing the hall, his hand upon the grip of his sword. At the other end of the table were two children, eating ravenously. Éowyn was crouched beside them.

"That's it," she said gently. "Not too fast now, you will be ill. There is plenty."

"Children," Thorin said blankly. "Whose children, and from where?"

"They're Rohirrim, definitely," said Óin, studying them. "Look at their hair an' clothes."

Éowyn stood, and a fury was barely contained in her voice as she said, "they had no warning. They were unarmed. Now the Wild Men are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go. Rick, cot and tree."

"Wild Men?" repeated Frerin, confused.

"Saruman," breathed Thorin. "This is the vilest deed yet. To attack children!"

"Perhaps Men an' Wizards don't feel as we do," suggested Nori, but Thorin shook his head.

"You remember how Boromir spoke of his city? No, Men love their children as well. And a Wizard should know better."

"You forget how bizarre some Wizards are," muttered Óin.

The little girl looked up. "Where is Mama?" she piped, and Éowyn smoothed back her hair, hushing her gently.

"This is but a taste of the terror Saruman will unleash," came Gandalf's grave voice, and he turned to see the Wizard seated beside Théoden's carven throne. "All the more potent for he is driven now by fear of Sauron. Ride out and meet him head on. Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight!"

Théoden gave him a long, old look, and sorrow warred with determination in his face. Thorin abruptly remembered that the Man had only just lost his son. "Ach, there is always such sorrow to be found," he sighed.

Frerin stepped closer. "Aye, there is," he echoed, "but there is still hope, nadad."

"Not for Théodred, there isn't," said Thorin. "For him, hope is lost."

"Who knows where Men go after they lose their life's thread?" Frerin said, spreading his hands helplessly. "Who knows what Arda remade will bring for others of mortal-kind?"

"Can we leave the grand philosophical questions until after I've eaten?" muttered Gimli, and Thorin's mouth twitched.

"Baknd ghelekh, my star," he said, and Gimli grinned.

"Baknd ghelekh, melhekhel," he replied, toasting him with a raised piece of bread.

"What are you saying, Mister Dwarf?" asked the little boy with wide eyes.

"Ah, I am greeting the day in my own tongue, young master," said Gimli, smiling over at the lad. "How would you say good morning in yours?"

The boy blinked and then became shy at the sudden attention, looking down at his plate. Legolas laughed. "You have intimidated him, Gimli," he said lightly. "Never have these people seen a Dwarf before, especially not one with such terrible manners."

"My manners are perfectly respectable, thankin' you kindly," Gimli said rather primly. "Better than yours anyway, you shameless Elf. Now, lad and wee lassie, I didn't mean to frighten you. I promise I mean you no harm."

The boy looked up, and his face was lost and overwhelmed. Thorin suddenly saw a boy thrown into the affairs of great lords and strange folk, told to care for his little sister and missing his mother desperately. "Brave little fellow," he murmured. "Nahùba nidoy."

"I like your beard," said the girl loudly, and Gimli chuckled.

"Why, thank you, little miss. It is indeed a very fine beard, an' the envy of all Elves. Why, I dare say the reason this one here always looks so sour is because he wishes he had such a fine beard of his very own. Your people grow some quite decent beards themselves: best I've seen from Men, at any rate. Your hair, now – that is a very coveted colour amongst my people! You'd be counted quite the little beauty, Your Majesty."

She giggled. "I'm not a Queen. I'm Freda."

"Ah, you cannot fool a Dwarf. You _are_ a Queen, Miss Freda," countered Gimli, smiling. "And your brother there is Master...?"

"Éothain," the boy mumbled, and he looked up hesitantly and a smile slowly tugged on his lips in response to Gimli's grin.

"However did you get such a way with children, mellon nin?" Legolas murmured.

"Remember, my nephew is but twenty-five, and cannot be much older than fine Master Éothain here," Gimli said, winking at the boy.

Freda giggled again. "Twenty-five is a big old man!"

"Not for a Dwarf, it isn't," Gimli told her. "Twenty-five is a little boy, red-headed and rascally and full of mischief and imagination. I dare say Gimizh is nearly your height now, Miss Freda, though of course he doesn't have such fine hair as yours."

Éothain's brow furrowed. "That's a strange name."

"Dwarves are very, very strange folk," Legolas told the boy solemnly. Éothain stared up at the Elf, and then he smiled again.

"I like you both," he announced, "even if you are strange." And with that he bent to his meal again, helping his sister to cut her meat.

"Those are fine young Dwarflings," said Óin sadly. "How could anyone be so cruel as to take their home and family from them?"

" _Children,"_ corrected Nori, ambling over to inspect a tapestry with a critical eye.

"Ach, you know what I mean."

Théoden stood, and resolve was in his face. "They will be 300 leagues from here by now. Éomer cannot help us. I know what it is you want of me, but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war."

Aragorn paused and turned to him. "This is a different tale to yesterday, Théoden-King. Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not."

Théoden's mouth tightened, and he looked sternly upon the Ranger. "When last I looked," he said with cold dignity, "Théoden, not Aragorn, was King in Rohan."

Gimli glanced up and then shared a look with Legolas. "This is not goin' to be good," he muttered. The Elf nodded slowly in agreement, his shining eyes darting between King and Wizard.

"Then what is the King's decision?" Gandalf asked stiffly.

* * *

"Helm's Deep!" Gandalf spat, charging through the dark corridors, shadows of wooden beams throwing strange shapes over his face.

"They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight," Gimli grumbled, stumping along behind the fuming Wizard. Beside him, Legolas walked with near-noiseless tread and Aragorn loped upon his other side. Thorin and his ghostly retinue followed, as close as thought. "Who will defend them, if not their King?"

Aragorn grimaced. "He's only doing what he thinks best for his people. Helm's Deep has saved them in the past."

"There is no way out of that ravine," Gandalf said hotly, his staff waving away a horde of attendants that attempted to greet them on their entrance to the richly appointed stables. One look at the Wizard's face, and they fled to a man. "Théoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he's leading them to safety. What they will get is a massacre."

"You should not discount his fears," Thorin said, and Gandalf's eyes met his. The wizard's face was still angry, but it softened as Thorin went on to say, "Gandalf. You fear the rise and fall of great powers and kingdoms, but he fears for more children like those in the hall, orphaned and destitute. He may not choose wisely, but he chooses for love of them."

Gandalf sighed slowly, and then he nodded imperceptibly. "Perhaps you have a point, Thorin Oakenshield, but I do not have to be pleased about it," he muttered.

"Now you understand how I have felt about our every conversation on the way to Erebor," Thorin retorted.

Gimli coughed and looked up at the ceiling, his cheeks suspiciously red.

Gandalf looked as though he were only just repressing a sharp comment. "Théoden has a strong will, but I fear for him. I fear for the survival of Rohan." He gave Thorin a quelling glance before turning to Aragorn. "He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you."

Aragorn appeared deeply troubled, his eyes shadowed and his breath coming loudly. Gandalf leaned in closer and met the Man's eyes. "The defences _have_ to hold," he said firmly.

"They will hold," Aragorn said in return, his voice quiet but certain.

The shining white form of Shadowfax loomed in the stall ahead, and the horse whickered as Gandalf approached. "The Grey Pilgrim. That's what they used to call me," the Wizard murmured, stroking the arched and proud neck. "Three hundred lives of Men I've walked this earth, and now I have no time. With luck, my search will not be in vain."

Aragorn stood aside as Gandalf mounted, and Gimli unlatched the stall gate as Legolas threw open the doors. "Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east," Gandalf said. Then he leaned forward over Shadowfax's neck to whisper in his flickering ear, and with a great neigh that shook the stables, the mighty horse reared and galloped from his stall and through the streets of Edoras, dust flying up underneath his hooves.

"There goes the White Rider, and may he find hope and bring it back to us," Aragorn said, and he bent his head and touched the jewel he wore around his neck.

"Lighten up, laddie," Gimli said, nudging him. "You've still two doughty friends by your side, and we listen to you even if Kings do not."

Aragorn smiled. "That is a comfort, truly."

"Hodo hi, Aragorn," Legolas said, and put a fine-boned hand upon the Man's shoulder. "Come. Let us attend Théoden and see what good we may do. If nothing else, Gimli may play nursemaid."

"Why you...!" Gimli puffed himself up indignantly, and then he began to laugh. "Ridiculous Elf. I suppose I deserved that for the beard comment earlier."

Legolas smiled down at him. "How did you say it? Ah, 'Khazâd ai-mênu'?"

Gimli snorted loudly, still laughing. "That accent is still appalling!"

"Well, I have not gargled gravel every day for breakfast in true Dwarven tradition, do forgive me!" Legolas' smiled broadened as Gimli made an outraged sound of protest.

"Gravel!" he said. "Bite your tongue." Then he grinned broadly. "I'm a Durin after all, and wouldn't be caught dead gargling anything less than emeralds, my lad, an' don't you forget it!"

Legolas threw his head back, and the stablehands paused as the silvery sound of Elven laughter soared through the air.

Óin whimpered, his head falling into his hands. "I can never look Balin in the face again," he moaned. Frerin sympathetically patted his back.

Aragorn glanced between the laughing pair, and then to Thorin's bemusement he groaned very quietly. "Yes, let's go in again," he said in a louder voice, leading the way. "Others around us. Yes."

"Oh thank Mahal it ain't just me who notices," Nori muttered, and he strode off immediately at Aragorn's heels. He kept his eyes determinedly fixed away from Gimli and Legolas, and his back was held stiffly.

"What was that about?" Frerin whispered.

"Search me," said Óin, glaring at his nephew. "I'll bet my new beads that it has something to do with idiot Dwarrows who scatter secrets like a tree scatters leaves."

"I'll take that wager," Nori's voice came floating back.

That made Thorin's brows rise. "So it _isn't_ to do with our secrets," he wondered. "Hmm."

"We'll find out in due time," Frerin said, wrinkling his nose. "Sometimes I think Nori is mysterious just to keep in practice."

"Trade secrets!" Nori hollered, out of sight.

"Come on," Thorin said, putting the mystery out of mind. As Frerin said, it would come to light soon enough.

Théoden was giving orders when Gimli and Legolas rejoined Aragorn in the main hall of Meduseld. The King was standing before the dais, his hand gesticulating as he directed foodstuffs and wagons with fuel and weapons to be sent ahead to the ancient fortress deep in the mountains.

Finally he stopped and lifted his hands. "We will ride at first light," he said, and nodded in acknowledgement at the shout of, _"Théoden-King!"_ that greeted this statement.

Éowyn came forth bearing wine, and she handed it to her uncle with shining eyes. "Ferthu Théoden hál!" she said. "Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

"Éowyn, sister-daughter," he said gently, before kissing her brow and accepting the cup, drinking deeply.

She then proffered it to Aragorn, pausing suddenly and looking upon him with a strange, fey light in her eyes – half-longing, half-resentment. "Hail, Aragorn son of Arathorn!" she said. He looked down upon her fair face and smiled absently, and as his hand took the cup from her their fingers touched, and she trembled.

"Hail, Lady of Rohan," he said politely, and drank.

"Oh, that's going to be painful," Nori predicted. "Aragorn's got that Elf tucked away back in Rivendell, an' this Lady is a proud one."

"He cannot hide who he is," Thorin murmured. "And she senses it."

"A lady such as that deserves more than a hopeless love," Frerin said hotly, and Thorin looked down at his little brother in surprise.

"I do not think it to be love," he said eventually. "I think, rather, that she wishes to _be_ Aragorn, not to love him. She sees a legendary and noble leader of Men, with all the freedom of a Ranger and all the renown of a warrior, descended from the highest heroes possible. She cannot see all the ways in which he is trapped just as neatly as she."

Frerin wrinkled his nose, and then he sighed. "I suppose. Still, she deserves better."

Thorin let his mind drift back to missed opportunities and blind ignorance, a love thwarted and ultimately doomed, separated and sundered by time and death. "As do we all, brother."

Frerin's eyes darted to him, and then he leaned against Thorin comfortingly.

"To my guests, I offer such things as may be found in my armoury," Théoden announced. "May they serve you well."

Aragorn inclined his head politely, though Gimli looked dubious. "I doubt I am to find any mail better than that which I wear, forged by my great ancestor under the Mountain long ago," he muttered.

Théoden apparently overheard him, and he smiled. "The craft of the Dwarves is well-known, Master Gimli. Still, perhaps there is something I may offer you."

"A shield, perhaps," Gimli said after a moment. "I have none."

"It is done, then. I hope you will not be offended, but the only shield we have to fit you was made for me in Thengel's day, when I was but a boy, and bears our sigil of a white horse running against a field of green."

Gimli bowed, and Thorin was once again surprised at how courtly and well-spoken his star could be. "I am proud, Lord of the Mark, to bear your device," he said in his rumbling voice. "Indeed, I would sooner bear a horse than be borne by one! I love my feet better. But, maybe, I shall come yet to where I may stand and fight."

"That day is no doubt coming closer," Théoden agreed, and he smiled again but this time with no humour.

"Lord, the orders are given," said Gamling, drawing close and striking his chest with his fist.

"Good," Théoden nodded. "Then prepare yourselves. At first light – we ride for Helm's Deep!"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tbc..._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Mellon nin – my friend.  
> Hodo hi – rest now
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Baknd ghelekh – good morning  
> Nahùba - heroic  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight
> 
> _Some dialogue taken from the movies and from the Chapters, "The Taming of Smeagol" and "The King of the Golden Hall."_
> 
> _Dragon-sickness: is canon, from 'The Hobbit." Also canon is that Bilbo initially took the Arkenstone with less than altruistic purposes, and that Bard did not answer any of the Dwarves' legitimate concerns. Generally, the siege of Erebor is a giant horrible mess._
> 
> _Bluebells: Humility._
> 
> _Peonies: Shame, happy life, happy marriage (! Thorin is jumping the gun here, methinks)_
> 
> _Thank you forever to the Dwarrow Scholar, and to all those who have reviewed and kudosed and read this. You absolutely make my day, especially now that everything is so damned hectic and stressful. Hugs and snugs to you all._
> 
> __  
> _I will try to update the minute I am able, though I cannot promise that will be soon._  
> 


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have finally posted[Sansûkh: The Appendices](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58630) here on AO3. These will be the collected side-fics that don't belong in the standard narrative. They range from smutty and silly and funny to angsty and bleak. So. Yay stuff getting done?_
> 
>  
> 
> ...
> 
> **ART AND ARTINESS**
> 
>  _Strap yourselves in_.
> 
> The amazeriffic [asparklethatisblue](asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com) has drawn [Thorin and Old!Bilbo](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/65154830264/thorin-still-can-visit-the-living-world-unseen-and), and it is freaking beautiful and heartbreaking. Come on. It's bluesparkle. Do you really need another reason to race there now?
> 
> The gloriousuper [feignedsobriquet](feignedsobriquet.tumblr.com) has drawn the [most stunning Bomfrís](http://feignedsobriquet.tumblr.com/post/65376755338). All hail the Queen!
> 
> The megadelightful [loilbobaggins](loilbobaggins.tumblr.com) has drawn a cheeky and determined [Gimrís!](http://loilbobaggins.tumblr.com/post/65492754365)
> 
> The incredilicious [notanightlight](notanightlight.tumblr.com) has drawn the famous Dwarven nightingale, the renowned singer and professional chanteuse, [Barís Crystaltongue](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/65509838233/baris-crystaltongue), in her traditional Master Performer's gown! _Whooooooeeeeee._
> 
> And the terrifantastic [flukeoffate](flukeoffate.tumblr.com) has drawn a draft of our Dwarrowdam of today and her family! Here it is: [Bomfur, Genna, baby Bofur and baby Bombur. ](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/65595194697/happy-halloween-a-realllllly-rough-preview-of) It is adorable!
> 
> Finally, you will not believe this. The super-talented [fuckthisimgoingtoerebor](fuckthisimgoingtoerebor.tumblr.com), who does _professional podcasty stuff_ , is turning Sansûkh **into a podfic** , beginning with [The Appendices](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58630).
> 
> *heavy breathing*
> 
> [Here is the master post](http://fuckthisimgoingtoerebor.tumblr.com/ericareadssansukh) where you can find this gloriousness. I absolutely 300% recommend it. Fae is a freaking marvel. 
> 
> ...
> 
> A lovely person reminded me that _I forgot a Dwarrowdam_. I am suitably chastened. Here she is!
> 
>  **Meet a Dwarrowdam** : _Genna daughter of Gorta_
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   _Genna, by[Flukeoffate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/68086256648/genna-bofur-and-bomburs-mother-as-imagined-by)_  
> 
> 
> Genna was a curvaceous and vivacious Dwarrowdam with bright ginger hair, an infectious giggle and a love of both food and cooking. Her profession was ostensibly woodworking, but in reality she did not find it interesting in the slightest. Her true calling was making people laugh. It became well-known that if Genna were spending time at the markets or at the taverns, then every Dwarrow in Ered Luin should also be there listening to her stories. Genna could turn her direst tragedy into a wryly humorous tale.
> 
> Eventually she met her match, a dark-haired, mischievous-faced Dwarrow named Bomfur. He was a stocky Broadbeam who eked out a living as a miner. Bomfur was also well-known for his funny stories, and the pair began an impromptu and informal competition in the taverns of Ered Luin, during which they ended up falling in love and the only winners were their audience. The couple lived in cheerful but nervous poverty their whole lives, scraping just enough together to keep soul and skin intact. They had two children, Bofur and Bombur, and Genna passed on to them her love of jokes and tall tales, her skills as a woodworker, and her insatiable love of food. She outlived her husband Bomfur by nearly fifty years and died peacefully in her sleep in Ered Luin, still in abject poverty and still cracking jokes.

The night passed quickly, and Thorin woke to see his door half-open and beginning to shut. A flash of golden hair revealed who had come to check on him. "Frerin, it is far too early," he grunted, his voice low and raspy from sleep.

The door halted, and then it swung open to reveal Fíli with a wry smile on his lips. Beneath his eyes were black bags, and his normally rather proud and neat braids were mussed. One moustache-braid had nearly unravelled. "The other blond, I'm afraid."

Thorin sat up sharply. "Unday, are you all right?"

Fíli shifted his weight, uncomfortable. He ran his free hand through the back of his messy hair, his other hand still holding onto the door. "I..." he said, and then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Sorry," he said, and tried to restrain a yawn. "I was just checking to see if you were..."

"I am awake now," Thorin said, and he tried not to yawn as well. His nephews' yawns had always been contagious. It had made for some very trying times when they were young and refused to go to bed. "Come, sit. You look tired."

"I am," Fíli said, and he nearly stumbled over his feet as he crossed the room to slump near Thorin's feet at the end of the pallet.

Thorin shunted forward and leaned his elbows upon his knees. "Fíli."

Fíli smiled again, but it was a hairsbreadth away from a grimace. "It's hard, watching when there's only two of you. We're taking shifts. I'm beginning to forget what Kee looks like."

Thorin frowned. "This is not well, namadul. You need others to help you. I will not have you emulating me in your zeal. You do recall what happened when I pushed myself beyond my limits?"

Fíli's mouth quirked, and his fraying moustache-braid unravelled just a little more. "You know, before? I never actually knew you _had_ any limits."

"Oh, Fíli, my bahyurur akhûnîth. That is kind of you, but it is wrong." Thorin shook his head, his own braids sliding over his shoulder. He tugged a bead from the end of one, and then gestured that Fíli should sit back against Thorin's legs. "Come here."

Fíli came, unprotesting and obedient as always, and Thorin's heart pushed painfully against his lungs as it swelled. His nephews were always so loyal. The young Dwarrow bent his head and sighed as Thorin began to finger-comb the mess upon his golden head. It reminded him of quiet, freezing nights spent in the bareness of Ered Luin: Fíli's small warm body curled against his chest, slowly falling asleep as Thorin tidied his hair. "You look like a straw-pile," he murmured.

Fíli grunted, and then sighed again, tension leeching from the set of his shoulders. "And you look like a sheepdog," he mumbled, and Thorin smiled at the casual disrespect.

"That's it. Relax," Thorin said as gently as he was able. It was difficult, now that the memories had risen in him, not to gather Fíli close and hold him as he had once done. Fíli had always had the patience for such an affectionate embrace where Kíli had not, and had endured having his hair tidied with every sign of enjoyment at the attention. Yet now his little Fíli was a grown Dwarrow, strong and fierce and bold, not the wriggling trusting creature of so long ago. "Tell me what is bothering you, Fíli."

"I'm all right," Fíli said immediately, and Thorin snorted as he began to reweave one of Fíli's side-braids.

"Of course you are. That is why you came here at some unearthly hour to see if I was awake."

  
  
Thorin and young Fili, long ago, by [Jeza-red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/65978585541/because-newest-chapter-of-sansukh-made-me-think)  


Fíli's shoulders rounded again, his neck convulsing as he swallowed.

"Kidhuzurkurdu," he said, as quietly as he could. Fíli's whole back flinched at the sound of his Dark name spoken aloud. "Tell me, unday."

Fíli was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "Gollum."

Thorin's fingers paused in their braiding. Trying not to growl, he repeated, "Aye, Gollum." Bile rose up in his throat.

Fíli half-turned where he sat, his eyes trained on his hands that gripped his knees. Now that the topic had been breached, his words tumbled over each other as he spilled his worries. "Did I do right by not calling you? Sam is brave and Frodo is wise, but Gollum is a thing unknown and unknowable. Can they even _hear_ you, your Gift notwithstanding? They are only two Hobbits, alone in the Wilds."

Thorin tied Fíli's braid with his own bead, and then began to unravel the other side-braid over his ear. "Did you pity him?" he asked in a low voice.

Fíli turned fully, wincing as his hair tugged in Thorin's hands. "What?"

"Hold still. I do not wish to tear your braids straight from your head," commanded Thorin, tugging gently until Fíli turned back. "Did you pity Gollum?"

Fíli was silent again. Kíli could never be so patient. Kíli would have squirmed away from the braiding long before now. "Yes," said Fíli finally. "Yes, I did. I wonder how old he is, Thorin. He is twisted and full of wickedness... and yet he's so starved, such a weak, lonely, drained and pitiable thing, sucked dry of everything but his obsession for the RIng. I wonder what he was."

"Was?"

"When he turned, in the moonlight," Fíli said, and he yawned again. Thorin tied off the next braid and moved onto another. "He reminded me of an old Hobbit, shrunken like a winter apple."

Thorin took a breath, and then let it out slowly. "A Hobbit, you say?"

"Aye," Fíli said, and Thorin chanced a look at his face. It seemed some things did not change. Now that Thorin's fingers twined in his hair, Fíli's eyelids were drooping and his head nodded above his chest. "Like an old Hobbit, like Bilbo."

Thorin's heart stuttered, and then he squashed the feeling. Bilbo had relinquished the Ring. No such fate awaited him. "You need more sleep, inùdoy," he said softly.

"I know, I..." Fíli yawned once more, his jaw cracking, "know. I just..."

"Lie down." Thorin pushed himself out of his furs and threw the uppermost one over Fíli's legs. His nephew looked sleepily confused.

"But-"

"Sleep," said Thorin, and he smoothed back Fíli's neatened hair. The touch worked its normal magic, and Fíli's eyelids fluttered. He slumped back into Thorin's bed, and then frowned absently.

"But Kíli..."

"I will see what can be done," Thorin promised him. "You and your brother should not watch alone. You have done well with the charge I granted you, Fíli, and I am proud. Still, you are both in need of the lesson I learned only too recently."

"You never stop, though," Fíli mumbled, and he turned his face to press it against the pillow. His moustache was now completely unravelled, and was clinging to his short beard. "Want to show you. Can be like you, uncle."

That was a true indication of how tired Fíli was. He slipped and called Thorin 'uncle' far more rarely than his brother. "I strongly advise against it," Thorin said, and smiled ruefully. "You are far better at being yourself."

"But-"

"Shhh. Sleep, Fíli. You must be strong and well. As Óin has said so many times, Dwarves are not truly made of stone, though our heads may yet prove hard enough. We must rest and refresh ourselves for the work, even I. Shhh." He let his hand rest on Fíli's head for another moment, until the slow sound of the boy's breathing told him that he had fallen asleep. Then he dragged on a clean set of clothes and checked the mirror.

His hair did bear a certain passing resemblance to an unkempt sheepdog. Sighing, he picked up his brush. This was becoming a recurrence. He had never had such trouble when he was alive. He wondered if his Maker had recreated his hair with a mind of its own as some sort of obscure amusement.

Then a thought struck him, and his fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the brush. Would Bilbo care to tend it for him? It was highly intimate, of course. Once, Thorin had walked in on Víli combing back Dís' long fall of dark hair, and had abruptly left as quickly as he had arrived, his face flaming. Would a Hobbit even know what to do with such hair as Dwarves grew? Bilbo's hair was ever short and curly, wisping around face and ears. Not for him the long, thick, coarse hair that must be oiled and braided accordingly. Not for him the cherished knowledge of beards and plaits and beads. Bilbo had never thought of his curls as special, no. Bilbo had not lain awake when young, wondering if there was a special pair of hands that would one day sink into his beard, touching so near the vulnerable pulse that hopped in his throat.

Would Bilbo like that, or would it seem strange to him?

That is, of course, if Bilbo were able to come to the Halls of Mahal. If he even _wanted_ to.

"I would let you shear it, my diamond-heart," Thorin whispered, tugging thoughtfully at one silver-streaked lock. "I would let you cut it off, eighty passes with your little sword, a swathe for each year of loneliness I have brought you. My beard I gave for Erebor, but my hair I would give for you."

His young, vital, wholly-imaginary Bilbo scoffed. "Don't be preposterous, you great overdramatic lummox," he said, his hands landing on his hips. His cross little scowl passed his lips, but his eyes were fond. "What in the name of the Old Took would _I_ do with your hair – make a doily? Leave it where it is!"

Sighing again, Thorin brought his brush to his hair and began the process of taming it. Once presentable, he paused over the rumpled figure sprawled in his bed, his hand sifting in Fíli's golden hair once more. The lad's mouth was slack and his hands had cast themselves wide. The rings beneath his eyes stood out dark and hollow, even more noticeable now that they were closed.

Thorin smoothed out the worry that crouched upon his nephew's brow, and then carefully and silently shut the door behind him.

Breakfast was spent comfortably, for the most part. Thráin spoke of Glóin and his homecoming, his eyes twinkling. "I don't think his family has let him out of sight for a single second of the last two days," he chuckled. "That grandson of his trails him like a hyperactive little shadow, and his daughter simultaneously scolds him and kisses him. As for Mizim..."

"I can imagine," Thorin said. "Mizim is not a Dwarrowdam to lightly cross."

Thrór shook his great shaggy head ruefully. "Ah, but she doesn't say a word! Just belts his arm and then drags him off. That Bofur goes into hysterics, every time."

Thorin smiled. "He would."

Frerin gave Thorin a nudge, and then tipped his head towards their father and grandfather pointedly. Thorin rolled his eyes ceilingward, and then nodded gravely. "Soon," he mouthed.

"You'd better," Frerin said, his small face set in a scowl.

Thorin resisted the urge to turn away, to growl, to snarl at his brother. He would talk to his father and grandfather in his own time, at his own pace, and not in full view of every Dwarf in the Halls. They would talk of minds and madness, of weakness and strength. They would try.

And then, Thorin thought with a sudden surge of bleakness, he would probably break every wall in his workshop.

Frerin nudged him again, and then looked up. Thorin heaved a silent breath, before following his gaze to his mother's piercing, shrewd blue eyes. Frís was watching them both carefully. Once their attention was fully on her, she raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

"Later," Thorin said curtly.

Her lips tightened a little, but she nodded. "You will tell me," she said. Her tone left no room for argument.

Thorin nodded his head once, and Frerin's hand tightened upon his forearm.

After breakfast, Thorin caught Ori's sleeve as they made their way towards the Chamber of Sansûkhul. The scribe gave him a long, weary look. "Not another change?" he groaned.

"Fíli and Kíli are watching alone. They cannot keep such hours between just two Dwarrows," Thorin said, his eyebrows raising. Ori scrunched up his nose, but he nodded.

"All right, fine," he grumbled. "I'll change the schedule again. You're all going to drive me completely barmy, you know that?"

"You are very patient with us," Thorin said, trying to keep his face absolutely straight. He had a suspicion that he was failing.

"Are you _laughing at me?"_ Ori said suspiciously, and Thorin had to duck away and clear his throat to get himself under control.

Thorin and Frerin and Ori were to be joined by Óin that day, but Ori said (snippily) that the healer had swapped with Lóni in order to watch over Erebor and his brother some more. "It's not that I mind changing it so much," he complained, "only it's a terrible waste of paper. And I have no idea where it comes from here, and so using it up simply makes my flesh crawl."

"Stop moaning," said Lóni from beside the pearl-studded doors to the great starlit pool. "As though it's a great hardship for _you_ to write!"

"Mock all you want, but it gives me the willies," Ori said with a toss of his head. "I don't even like chewing my dinner too much."

Thorin remembered how uneasy he had been at the mysterious way in which the Halls replenished its food and supplies. "I suspect we are not to know," he said.

"I hate not knowing," Ori muttered, taking his seat.

"Shove over," Lóni said, pushing at Ori's shoulder and sitting down. Then he squinted over at Thorin. "Is it going to be another running day? Because I warn you, Gimli has always been faster than I am."

"I know," Thorin said, giving the brown-bearded Dwarrow a dry smile. "You were the taller, but he was the faster. Fear not, I doubt we will be running. There will be many wagons and families in the train to Helm's Deep, and they do not move quickly."

"No, I remember," Lóni said. "It got right boring on the trip from Ered Luin to Erebor."

"Come on," Frerin said, his right leg jiggling as he sat and waited with poorly concealed eagerness. "Let's get going."

"Impatient, nadadith," Thorin murmured as the stars reached up to him with blinding white-hot fingers and stole his sight.

The sound of the fierce winds of Rohan greeted him even before he could see, and in his nostrils rose the scent of horses and trampled grass. Thorin's eyes watered slightly as they recovered, and he found himself looking at a great long line of horses, carts and Men. Directly before him was a slim figure, long pale hair streaming behind it. He squinted. Was that the Elf?

Frerin stepped forward eagerly from beside him, his eyes alive with anticipation. The figure gradually resolved itself into Éowyn, standing straight and tall as a sword as she led a dappled grey horse by the halter. Upon the horse's back were the two children, Freda and Éothain.

Thorin gave Frerin an amused look. "I see."

Frerin sniffed and ignored him, still gazing up at Éowyn with a strangely shy look on his face.

"That's a terrible lot of horses," muttered Lóni, glancing around. "Never did like 'em. Unreasonable-sized, they are."

"At least they're walking," Ori pointed out. Then his face brightened, and he pointed to just beyond the Lady Éowyn. "And so is Gimli."

Thorin turned, and sure enough, his star stumped along beside the children's horse, his helm resting upon the haft of his axe and his grey-green cloak thrown back over his shoulders. It was hot enough that Thorin would have preferred to ride had the option been given to him. The sun was high in the sky, and few clouds muted its light. Yet every footfall from the younger Dwarf seemed somehow adamant, as though this was as far from the earth as this particular foot was going to get.

"Good lad!" Lóni said approvingly. "I knew you wouldn't get Gimli up on one of those long-legged walking catastrophes. He's got more sense than that."

"Gimli has ridden twice now," Thorin said as mildly as he could.

Lóni glanced at Thorin, and then he glared at his friend. "You utter _twit._ Well, it's a good thing you've got such a hard head, gamil bâhûn, for when the bloody thing inevitably drops you onto it."

Gimli's brow furrowed a little, and then he smiled to himself. "And again, my lord and kin, my friends," he murmured. "Back with me, I see."

"Does he see us?" Ori squeaked.

"No," Thorin said, stepping closer. "He but senses us. Still, he grows more and more perceptive. Did you mark how he greeted us just now?"

Ori nodded quickly. "He's not related to Lóni or I..."

"And of us all, he only hears you properly," Frerin added. "But sometimes...?"

"Sometimes," Gimli echoed.

There was an echoing silence.

"Mahal's blessed _balls,"_ said Lóni in a strangled voice.

Gimli chuckled, his deep brown eyes twinkling.

"Is something amusing, Master Dwarf?"asked Éowyn, her head turning down to him. Her eyes glanced over the Dwarf with undisguised curiosity, though she was polite enough in her scrutiny.

"Gimli, please, m'lady," Gimli returned courteously, bowing slightly as he stamped along. "And no, I was but thinking to myself."

The dull thud of hooves upon sod heralded the approach of the Elf. "Gimli is a great one for thinking and muttering to himself," Legolas said, reining Arod in and smiling at the shieldmaiden. "In fact, it is a feat of some significance to get him to stop. Never have I known one so garrulous: he would talk underwater, if he could."

" _Me?"_ Gimli spluttered, and then he made an annoyed sound at the Elf's ripple of laughter. "Oh, mark this! He teases me again. Take no notice of him, little miss and young master! Elves are a strange and silly folk."

"And Dwarves are, of course, so staid and sensible and not at all inclined to tease in return," Legolas said mockingly.

Gimli drew himself up, his chest thrown out proudly. "You see? He may be taught!"

Legolas jerked back, and then he shook his head, chuckling. "You win this bout, mellon nin," he said fondly.

"Why do you not ride a horse, Mister Dwarf?" piped Freda. Gimli's face immediately softened, and his eyes grew warm.

"Ah, because I am not very good at riding, Miss Freda," he told her, giving her a conspiratorial little wink. "I am, however, _very_ good at walking."

"You could learn," said Éothain, frowning. The boy seemed confused at the idea that a person might prefer their feet to a saddle.

"I could, aye," Gimli confirmed, though his nose wrinkled. "But I won't. I would make a poor rider, and besides, I would not think the weight that a horse can carry could ever be too much for my own back and my own two legs."

"You can carry as much as a horse?" Éowyn said sceptically.

"I do not know, actually." Gimli pulled at his beard thoughtfully. "I've never found out how much a horse can carry. Still, I can carry as much as a pony can, and for longer, and that is all that is needed."

"Do not try to lift his mail-shirt," Legolas said, smiling at them. "I think it may weigh as much as Gimli himself."

Éothain looked impressed, though the Lady Éowyn still seemed dubious. "I suppose your feet would not reach the stirrups," she said, and then her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry, was that..."

Gimli waved his hand. "No, that's not offensive. It would take very bad eyesight indeed to miss that I am a great deal shorter than you. At any rate, my legs may not be the length of yours but they work as legs should. At least Hobbits are smaller than Dwarves!"

"What's a Hobbit?" whispered Freda, turning to her brother.

"The Holbytla, do you mean?" Éowyn said. "Théoden-King mentioned that these were central to your mission in our lands. They are but a children's story."

"What an odd word," Ori said, fascinated. "Holbytla. _Hol_ bytla. It's almost like _Hobbit_ , isn't it?"

Frerin shushed him, leaning forward to gaze up at the Lady with slightly dreamy eyes.

"I am not sure what you mean by that, Lady," Legolas said, "but Hobbits are a little people, smaller than Gimli here, and beardless. They are curly-haired and woolly-footed, merry and smiling and gentle."

"Unless, o' course, you stand between them an' food," Gimli added.

"How strange," Éowyn said, shaking her head. Her hair rippled as her head moved, snaking over her back. "A Dwarf and an Elf in the Riddermark after so many long centuries, a chase of staggering endurance... and now legends from the distant past!" As she spoke, her eyes slid to Aragorn, riding beside Théoden at the head of the line.

"I _knew_ they were real," muttered Freda, her chin jutting out stubbornly. "I knew it."

"No you didn't," Éothain muttered back, and Freda ignored him with beautiful disdain.

"Mister Dwarf," she said, leaning so far over the saddlebow that her brother had to catch the back of her smock, "do the Holbylta give presents and sing special songs to good children?"

Gimli blinked, and to his credit, he did not laugh. "I have not heard so," he said solemnly to the little girl, as though her question was of the utmost importance. "Still, I do not know Hobbits as well as all that. I _do_ know that they give presents at the slightest excuse to do so. I remember, once when I was quite young, a Hobbit gave presents to ten of my family and friends for no other reason than he missed them all dearly."

Freda's eyes glowed. Thorin's mouth quirked slightly as he recalled the scene: the impossibly green and rolling hills of the Northfarthing, the sprawling Dwarven caravans and the songs of old Dwarves as they marched back home, Dís' hopeless and determined gaze, and Bilbo's brown-gold hair glinting in the sunlight. "Your sister thoroughly thrashed you at conkers," he remembered.

"Ach, don't remind me," Gimli mumbled. "She gloated for _weeks."_

"Who?" Éothain leaned forward, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Oh, my younger sister, Gimrís," Gimli said, scratching at his bearded chin. "She bested me at the Hobbit's game of skill."

"Oh." Éothain glanced down at Freda, and then grinned. His eyes were still sad and spoke of his longing for his mother, but his brittle show of bravery relaxed a little. "You have that problem too."

"Aye," Gimli said, and grinned back.

"You're just a bad loser," said Freda, tossing her corn-yellow head.

Éowyn blinked, and then she laughed aloud. It was abrupt and loud and startled, almost as though she was surprised by her own laughter. Frerin smiled involuntarily, and Thorin let his hand rest on his brother's shoulder. His little infatuation would not hurt him, and to be frank, Thorin was glad that Frerin would finally experience that part of his life, too little and too late though it was.

"A singularly lovely laugh," he murmured, and Frerin nodded wordlessly, before sighing and leaning back against Thorin's shoulder.

"Isn't it, though?" he said wistfully.

"You must uphold the honour of younger sisters everywhere," Éowyn said to the little girl, her white teeth flashing in a smile. "It is a solemn and sacred duty we pass to you, Freda. Make Gimli's sister and myself proud."

"Ah, of course, you have an older brother as well!" Legolas said, and shook his head. "Well, I find I must regretfully side with the ladies, Gimli. I have two older brothers, after all. You and Éothain are on your own."

"Hah!" Gimli said, grinning up at the Elf. "No great loss!"

"You and I must talk, Lady," said Legolas with a great show of solemnity, "of the annoyance that is older brothers, and how impossible and disdainful and overbearing they can be."

Frerin turned to Thorin with a smug look that needed absolutely no words. Thorin made a rough sound deep in his throat and rolled his eyes. "Yes, brother, feel vindicated. For now."

"Oh, as if any of you can even come _close,"_ Ori muttered to himself, folding his arms and pouting.

Éowyn's smile was faint and sad, and her back was straight and her head proud as her eyes turned out over the chill grassy lands. "And how, even so, you miss them dearly and would not change them for all the wide world."

Suddenly, Legolas' face went blank and cold and he stared over the great expanse of grey-green moors from their small grassy rise with his unsettling Elven gaze. Gimli tilted his head. "Legolas?" he said, frowning.

"Dartho ennas," Legolas said, swinging his leg over his horse and dismounting. He handed the reins to Gimli, who looked at them helplessly before lifting his head to stare up at Arod.

"Ah. Right," he said uncertainly.

The horse looked at him with its nostrils.

"Oh, this is going swimmingly," Lóni said, slapping his palm over his eyes.

Gimli shifted his weight between his feet uncomfortably, and then hissed, "Legolas, what in Durin's name...!"

"Wait," Legolas said in a distant voice, climbing with lithe, fleet feet atop one of the small rocky outcrops that dotted the moors. "I cannot be certain."

"What is Mister Elf doing, Éothain?" whispered Freda and her brother hushed her gently, his eyes wary.

"Elves can see remarkably well in daylight," Gimli said to her, and looked down at the reins that were clutched awkwardly in his hand. "Well, it doesn't seem to dislike me - and I don't think it will turn violent."

Éowyn concealed her smile.

At that moment, the Man called Gamling and Háma the doorwarden of Meduseld urged their horses forward. Their faces were grim and alert. "Be on guard!" called Háma, his fist raised.

"What is it, Háma?" said Gamling, his hand upon his sword.

"I'm not sure," said Háma, his lips tight.

"There!" shouted Frerin, his arm whipping up to point at a dark shape silhouetted against the mid-morning sky. It moved as fast as thought, a shadow passing over the rolling steppes of Rohan, and then with a great savage snarl the Warg and rider were snapping at Gamling's horse. The Rider fought well, but he had to contend not only with the Orc's blade but with the steed's teeth.

A musical _twang_ heralded the Bow of Galadriel, and an arrow blossomed in the neck of the Warg. The beast croaked and fell, and then Legolas' white knives were flashing and the Orc was dead.

"A scout!" the Elf cried.

" _That_ was a pretty piece of fighting," said Lóni grudgingly.

At the head of the column, the King reined in his white horse. "What is it?" he cried. "Aragorn, what do you see?"

"Wargs!" Aragorn shouted back, and the call was taken up by others along the snaking trail of women, children and carts. Many voices cried out in fear. "We're under attack!"

"Draw them away!" Gimli roared, stepping forward, and Arod bucked in surprise though his reins were caught firm in Gimli's iron grip. "Draw the Wargs away from the column! Ride to meet them!"

Aragorn nodded, and then snapped, "get them out of here!"

Théoden waved his sword in the air, a shining banner in the pale sunlight. "Riders to the head of the column! Riders, to me!"

Gimli looked up at Arod, who looked down at him in return. "Well, beastie," he said in resignation. "Let's give it a shot, shall we?"

"Legolas!" Aragorn hollered, circling Hasufel around. "Legolas, give us warning!"

Nodding, Legolas ran on light feet back to the top of the rocky scree, shading his eyes with one hand as he peered out over the plains of Rohan.

Gimli hauled himself up onto Arod's saddle, awkward thanks to the height and the breadth of the horse's back. Thorin rather thought that had Gimli's arms been less strong, he would not have managed it in full kit. "All right, so far so good," he said to himself. "Now, are you trained like a pony, I wonder?"

"Éowyn, sister-daughter," Théoden said in a low, terse voice, catching her sleeve. "Take them on to safety."

Her eyes flashed. "I can fight!"

"I know," he said, and his hand tightened upon her forearm. "And you may need to should we fail. You must do this. For me."

Before she could answer, he wheeled his horse and galloped back to the forefront of the column. His gold-and-scarlet helm soon joined Aragorn's dark and shaggy head.

Éowyn's lip twisted in frustration, before she turned to the panicking people and raised her white arms. "Good people!" she called in her clear cold voice, and her hair snapped like a golden flag in the harsh winds. "As fast as you can! To the north-west! Leave your wagons – save your lives!"

"Éorlingas! Riders of Rohan!" Théoden roared. "Follow me!"

The thunder of hooves answered him, and Gimli awkwardly turned Arod to follow. "Forward," he muttered. "I mean, charge _forward._ Ach, you stupid thing!"

"Make for the lower ground!" Éowyn cried, swinging up into the saddle of a horse in one smooth movement. Gimli sent her a resentful scowl, before nudging Arod futilely with his knees.

"Forward!" he growled, and then he leaned forward eagerly as Arod began to trot, then canter. "Aha! That's it!"

Aragorn paused to see the last of the folk of Rohan fleeing over the hillside, before turning to the oncoming flood of snarling, loping wargs and their evil-faced riders. His sword leapt in his hand.

Éowyn halted at the lip of the hill, her face torn and full of envy and frustration as she watched him. Then with a soft cry, she tore herself away from the warriors towards the wagons, and her duty.

"Why can she not fight?" wondered Ori. "She obviously wants to."

"Perhaps Men do not risk their Dwarrowdams," said Lóni, his voice bewildered.

" _Women,"_ Ori corrected once more, sighing.

"But she is a shieldmaiden," Frerin said, turning back to gaze up at Thorin with puzzled and sympathetic eyes. "I heard the King say. She can fight as well. Why send her away? And why are there no other shieldmaidens?"

Thorin shook his head. "I do not know, nadad," he said, as kindly as he could. "I was never very diligent when studying the customs of Men."

"Ori?" Frerin said, turning to the scribe.

Ori shrugged. "The Rohirrim do not write very much. They are wise, but unlearned. They tell their history through great chants and songs and they do not keep records, and so I've never come across very much information in my archives. Only the details regarding any of their dealings with Gondor."

"Who _do_ keep records," added Thorin, turning back to where the Wargs crashed into the wall of horseflesh. "Be wary. They are but a scouting party, but they are enough to cause some small mischief."

"A Warg is never a small mischief," Lóni muttered, and with that, all four Dwarrows began to charge down from their vantage point towards the fray.

"Legolas!" Gimli bellowed, unslinging his axe from his belt and flicking it in a loose circle. "Legolas, here!"

The Elf was firing arrow after arrow into the oncoming horde of Wargs, and his eyes barely flickered at Gimli's shout. As Arod's canter escalated into a full gallop, Legolas turned and in a feat of utter dexterity he grasped the bridle and swung himself up and around behind the Dwarf without breaking the horse's stride.

Gimli gaped.

Legolas gave him a tight-lipped smile. "I see you are riding a horse, Gimli."

"What...!" Gimli sputtered. "What in Mahal's name was _that?!"_

Legolas' smile broadened, and his bow sang once, then twice more. "You still do not understand very much of Elves, do you my dearest Dwarf?"

Gimli's mouth snapped shut, and then he laughed delightedly. "Nay, not if they can flip and turn like a weasel dancing for a mesmerised rabbit! That was indeed something to see, my friend. But now I should leave these reins to someone who may handle them with more skill. My axe is restless in my hand!"

"A _weasel!"_ Legolas snorted, and then he turned Arod deftly so that the horse's rump slammed against an Orc and sent him flying. "You are fitly revenged for all the times I have called you a mole. Down you get! There is plenty of work for your axe here!"

Gimli clapped his helm upon his head, slapped Legolas on the back, and then slid down from the horse. His steel-shod feet landed upon the sod with a loud thud, and he turned to a Warg and his eyes brightened with the fires of battle.

"Bring your pretty face to my axe," he grinned, letting his axe dance around him in the tight, shining circles that demanded such vast amounts of strength and control. Lóni's eyebrows shot up.

"He wasn't that good last time he..." he mumbled, and then he crossed his arms. "This is entirely unfair."

"That," Frerin announced, gawking like a simpleton, "should be impossible. _Dwalin_ couldn't spin an axe like that."

"I told you," Thorin murmured.

The fight was fast and brutal. Gimli's axe hacked through both Warg and rider as though they were made of silk. The sizzling hiss of arrows filled the air, along with the strident and desperate cries of Men and the hideous howls of the Orcs. The screams of horses and the slavering growls of Wargs filled in the background, adding to the cacophony. At one point a Warg fell full upon Gimli, knocking him over, and Ori gasped and grabbed at Thorin's arm.

"Get up, son of Glóin!" Thorin immediately ordered, and he crouched down beside Gimli's head. "Will you stay beneath this stinking creature? You are mightier than it could ever hope to be! Get up!"

"Ach, maybe so, but it stinks like an open cesspool," Gimli grumbled. Then he took a deep breath, bracing the powerful muscles of arms and stomach, and began to raise the Warg from over him. It was a flat press of weight from shoulders, chest and arms; an impressive feat of strength.

Gimli threw the Warg from him with a prodigious shove, and then he was moving once more, feet planted as though he were rooted to the ground like a mountain. He fought his way towards the confusion of horses and Wargs, his eyes darting around as though searching for a flash of grey-green and gold.

Théoden shouted in triumph as many of the Wargs turned tail, his bloodied sword rising high into the air. He was echoed by an answering shout from his riders, wearied and battered. Some saddles were empty, and several horses lay dead amongst the great shaggy corpses of the wolves of Isengard.

"Legolas?" Gimli shouted, dispatching an Orc with an almost-negligent flick of an axe and spinning on one heel. "Legolas!"

No answer greeted this call, and worry began to creep into Gimli's face. "Peace, my star," Thorin said, though he also combed the battlefield with his gaze. "No doubt the Elf is well."

Frerin gave Thorin an incredulous look.

"What?"

"Are you _worried_ about the _Elf?"_ blurted Ori.

Thorin gritted his teeth and shoved his concern as deep as he was able. "I am worried for Gimli," he grated. "Legolas is his friend."

"Aye, and a more infuriating..." Gimli burst out, and he tore his helm from his head and shouted louder. "Legolas!"

"There!" Frerin said, and he began to run towards a rise where a shape could barely be discerned against the grass but for the glint of golden hair. Thorin cursed and followed, his legs less swift than his brother's. Behind him he could hear the breath of Lóni and Ori coming fast, and then the soft, heavy footfalls of Gimli, as unstoppable as the tides.

Gimli slowed as he approached, pausing only to slay a Warg that was feebly struggling and snapping at him. "Legolas," he began.

The Elf stood, swift and fluid, and turned back to the Dwarf. Cupped in his hand was something that sparkled and shone like a captured star.

"Oh," Gimli said, and his heavy shoulders slumped. "Oh no."

Legolas closed his eyes.

A rasping, gurgling chuckle came from upon the peak, and the two unlikely friends turned to see an Orc lying there, clutching his torn belly.

In a flash, Gimli's axe glinted in his hand. "Tell me what happened, and I will ease your passing," he growled.

The Orc coughed out a gobbet of black blood, and smiled through broken teeth. "He's... dead," he sneered, and then he coughed again. "Took a little tumble off the cliff," he chortled.

Legolas' face darkened, twisting in a way Thorin had never seen from an Elf. "You lie!" he snarled in an unrecognisable voice, and his knife was in his hand.

With a sudden lurch, Thorin realised that they did not stand upon another hill, but upon a small escarpment. The roaring he had heard earlier was that of the river far below. He peered over. Icy foam churned amongst the points of sharp rocks, and he turned away with a muttered oath. There was no sign of Aragorn.

"None could survive that," breathed Lóni miserably.

Frerin bit his lip and clung to Thorin's arm, until Thorin turned and wrapped his brother in a tight, nearly fierce embrace.

The Orc's laughter rose and rose until he choked on his blood, and with a horrible gurgling sigh he slumped to one side, dead.

"Lost," Gimli whispered, his axe hanging lax in his great thick fingers.

Théoden moved forward and gave them what little comfort there was in words, but in his face was the knowledge that his people could not wait here, exposed and vulnerable to another attack. Thorin shook his head roughly, trying to jolt his numbed thoughts into order. Aragorn could not be dead. Aragorn had too much to live for: dear friends, devoted love, a future. Aragorn had a great and noble destiny.

 _Just as you did,_ whispered a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind. _And look what happened. Blind chance may upset the most noble of causes – why not his?_

"He does not want to be King. He has never wanted to be King," Thorin said aloud, and he let his eyelids drop. Aragorn, the ranger and warrior, the dutiful and careworn soul. Why had he not tried harder to understand the Man?

Gimli's breath heaved and rasped as he tried to curb his angry sobs, and his head was bent so low that his chin was hard-pressed against his chest. Legolas' face was once more full of the bewildered and unfathomable sorrow of the Elves: eternal, unchanging and somehow touched with an alien, aching grandeur.

Together they stood over the escarpment and watched the foaming water beneath in silent vigil, the Evenstar clasped loosely in the Elf's slender hand.

* * *

The host did not rest at sundown, but pressed on. Need drove them. They rode with all the speed they could muster, pressing on and on towards the safety of the Hornburg and the thick walls of Helm's Deep.

When night had well and truly closed around them, Théoden finally gave the signal to make camp. Fully half the Riders were to stay awake and guard the column, and the shift would change halfway through the night at Gamling's order. Scouts were to ride in every direction, and the horns would sound at dawn. They lit no fires.

Here it was that Thorin found them after the night's meal. Frerin stood at his right side, as always. Upon his left was his mother, her eyes compassionate.

Legolas pulled Arod up with a soft word in Elvish, and the horse seemed grateful to stop. Gimli unhooked his thumbs from inside Legolas' belt and stretched out his massive hands, the joints clicking. "Time, then," he said, and his normally hearty, rumbling voice, deep and strong as the bones of the earth, was muted and dull.

"Yes," Legolas answered, and he sounded just as listless. "Slide down, Gimli. We must rub down our friend Arod here, lest he stiffen overnight and be unable to bear us in the morning."

Gimli did as directed, his feet landing with their normal loud _thud._ "I'll rub down his legs," he said. "It is the least I can do for a horse that will hear a Dwarf's directions."

"You did well," Legolas said, dismounting with his usual weightless grace. Yet when his feet alighted on the grass his shoulders were heavy and slumped. His brow had a small line in it, as though he were puzzled. "I nearly could not believe my eyes."

"Aye, well," Gimli said, and he took up a handful of the dry, yellowing grass and began to rub it against Arod's forelegs. "He surprised me, too."

Legolas looked up at the sky, staring without blinking at the stars for a long, long moment. Then he said, "Savo hîdh nen gurth," in a voice that was barely audible.

Gimli sighed and leaned his head against Arod's shoulder. "Aye," he said softly.

Legolas' head turned slightly. "You understood me?"

"I know the meaning of that tone of voice, my lad, no matter the words you use," Gimli said, and he absently patted Arod's side as the horse's sweat-darkened flanks quivered in the night air. "Come on, give me a hand here. I will not be able to reach Arod's back, and he should not be left like this."

Legolas was still for a moment, and then he shook himself from his reverie, coming over and beginning to unbuckle the saddle and bridle from the faithful grey, leaving the soft halter around his head.

"What do we do now, Legolas?" said Gimli eventually, his hands still against the horse's sides. "Aragorn was our leader, and Aragorn we followed all this way. Now we are sundered beyond all knowledge and hope, alone of all our kinds."

Legolas shivered, and then he met Gimli's eyes. "I do not know, Gimli," he said softly. "Do we hold to the path that Aragorn has set us on, and make for this fastness in the mountains with the Horse-Lords? Truly, I do not know what he would have us do. Yet I would not prove faithless, now that the road is dark indeed."

Gimli's hand crept over and rested over Legolas'. His broad palm easily swallowed the Elf's slim hand, though the slender, bowstring-hardened fingers were far, far longer than Gimli's short and powerful ones. "And too, this path is the one Gandalf himself would have us choose. Yet my heart hammers for our Fellowship once more. Ach, Legolas! I am alone, as I have never felt it before."

"You have your kin with you," Legolas said, and he forced a smile. "You are not truly alone, Master Gimli."

"No indeed," Gimli said, and he sighed once more before looking up at Legolas. His dark eyes were unreadable, though they shone. "I am here with my friend, my ugbal bâhûn."

Legolas folded his other hand over Gimli's and squeezed. "Together, then," he said, low. Then he swallowed, his face uncertain in a most unElvish manner.

Frís drew in a quiet little breath between her teeth, looking between Elf and Dwarf with dawning realisation upon her face. "Great Maker," she whispered, eyes wide.

"Amad?" said Frerin, stepping towards her.

She held out her hand, stopping him, her head jerking from side to side. "Oh no, my sons," she breathed, pale with surprise and shock. "No, you are not ready to know this. You will _never_ be ready."

Thorin frowned. "Did you mean to include me in that?"

She gave him a tongue-tied, helpless sort of look. " _Especially you."_

"Are you all right, Legolas?" Gimli said, driving the haft of his great battleaxe deep into the ground and tying Arod's tether to it, before turning to the Elf fully. "As you say, I am not entirely alone. I can still feel my kin by my side even now. But you are an Elf surrounded by mortals..."

Legolas' shoulder's tensed once more, and then he sat upon the ground with uncharacteristic inelegance. "Yes, surrounded by mortals," he blurted, and let his long hair hide his face as his head bowed forward. "Gimli, your lives flit faster than the falling of night or the beat of a bird's wing! You spill through my fingers like sand. First Gandalf – then poor Boromir, ai Boromir! And now this blow, and this the hardest yet. We three, Gimli – you and I and Aragorn. The Three Kindreds, the Three Hunters. And he is gone." His hands sifted through the fine greyish-brown soil in an almost absent manner as he spoke, his voice impassioned though his face was still concealed. "I cannot bear another loss, so fast and so final."

Gimli crouched down before the Elf, his eyes full of worry, yet his voice was gentle and soft when he spoke. "Here now, Elf!" he said. "No other loss shall you bear. Merry and Pippin are safe with the Ents, and Gandalf has been restored to us. Even now, Frodo and Sam creep towards the only hope we have, and who is to say whether Aragorn has not survived his fall, so mighty a Man was he? And as for the last, I am here and hale, and no Orc or Warg will soon get the better of a Dwarf, of that you may be sure!"

Legolas looked up. "It is so different," he said, slow and halting. "So very different. Our lives are echoes of our greatest joys and our greatest woes, for they are forever as keen in our minds as they were when we first experienced them. Time makes no difference to their vivid bite. And so we find sorrow in beauty, and beauty in sorrow, and we have long years in which to twine them together. But you..."

Gimli squeezed Legolas' hands, waiting silently for him to continue.

"You feel your griefs so strongly that it would kill an Elf," Legolas said, and his fingers clutched around Gimli's in return. "It would destroy me to feel as you do, for I could never stop. And yet I find I cannot help it, so near and dear have you become! Gimli, please do not fall. I cannot lose you too – or I shall lose myself to mortal grief."

"Hush now," Gimli said, and he sat down upon the grass beside the Elf. "Legolas, calm yourself! I am going nowhere. I doubted but for a moment, and now I see the way ahead. You and I shall go to Helm's Deep, and there we will do what we can for these people. I shall not fall, and neither shall you. We shall prevail and your sorrow shall not take you as you so fear. Now then, close your eyes! I do not feel the need for sleep, but you have spent far too much time with these brief and fleeting birds and their beating wings. No, I do not mock, Master Elf – I know you can outlast me many times over when it comes to staying awake. Still, the question right now is whether you _should."_

Legolas frowned. "Gimli, mellon, you are being..."

"Well, no doubt when you get to eight million years old, a little rest here and there is needed," said Gimli, smiling. "A roof of stars for your bedchamber, what could be more Elvish?"

Legolas chuckled, and his face seemed more like his own again. "Thank you, Gimli," he said, and squeezed the Dwarf's hands again. "Wake me in an hour: that is all I need."

Gimli snorted in his most obstinate, Dwarvish fashion, and his eyes glowed with satisfaction when Legolas actually smiled in response. "Not likely, laddie. Go on, close your eyes! In the dark, I can see enough for us both."

"I would be able to see you in the dark as though it were full noon," Legolas mumbled, and his eyes grew glassy and distant as his limbs sank back into the grass.

  
[](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/post/84952454445/based-on-chapter-24-of-determamfidds-awesome-fic)  
Legolas and Gimli, by [sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/post/84952454445/based-on-chapter-24-of-determamfidds-awesome-fic)  


Gimli waited for a few moments, and then his mouth fell from his smile into lines of sorrow once more. He slowly slipped his hands out from between Legolas' fingers and began to unpick the braids of his beard.

"Gimli, no, not again," Thorin said, and groaned.

"What's this?" Frerin said, alarmed.

"Oh," Frís said, and then she glanced over at Thorin. "Oh dear."

"He deserves it," Gimli said, his fingers halting in their busy work. "Aragorn was our leader. More than that, he was my friend: the first Man I have ever called thus. I will miss him. He shall have a lock, no less than a Dwarf's share."

"Gimli, it is very noble of you," Thorin began, and then he knuckled his forehead in frustration. "Gimli, please listen. Wait before you do this. I have given my beard to those who were dead and cared nothing for it, and I know it cannot remove the sting. Has your mourning taken from you the sorrow of losing your uncle?"

Gimli's eyes flashed. "Ah. Of course you knew, and I was too dull and stupid to hear."

"No! Ikhuzh!" Thorin near-shouted. "Have you no _concept of –_ Gimli, my beloved star, you are the _only_ one who hears! The only one in eighty years! Others think me but their own minds, their own thoughts, whispering in their ears. But you can hear me, and know me as something apart from yourself. You can even feel my brother here, and your friends, and you know the difference between us! And you call yourself _dull?"_

The bright red braids of the handsome beard blew loose in the night winds as Gimli halted, uncertain. "Do you know if Aragorn is alive?" he said finally.

Thorin hung his head. "I do not. I could not see where the river swept him."

Gimli was silent for another long moment, and then he sighed gustily. "I will not cut him a lock yet, then," he said in a heavy voice. "I will take your advice. But should he not return to us within two days, I will finish what I have begun."

"You are a Dwarrow of your word, and I do not doubt it," Thorin assured him, before he blew out a breath. How he wished he could grasp that heavy shoulder, to clasp him close and give him comfort. How he wished he could be the bedrock for Gimli, as simply and easily as Gimli had been the bedrock for Legolas. For Thorin, too; for eighty long years he had depended upon this Dwarf's incredible emotional strength. "Gimli, there is yet hope," he implored, feeling useless and less than useless. What could a dead Dwarrow do? "Do not despair, ukrâd. As you said, Aragorn was a mighty Man. Who knows what clever gifts and tricks a Ranger may know? He may even be following in your footsteps as we speak, racing through the night to meet with his friends."

"Perhaps," Gimli said, and he let his hand drop from his fine beard. "Perhaps."

"Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin," Thorin said, and Gimli's laugh rumbled out across the dark plains, low and bitter and raw.

Then Gimli looked over at the Elf, open-eyed and motionless as a statue in sleep, before he brought up his knees to his chest and turned his face up to the sky. "Perhaps the Elves are on to somethin'," he said, rather obscurely. "Perhaps there is something to be said for stars."

"Gimli," Thorin said, before he felt his mother's hand upon his forearm.

"Come along, inùdoy," she said softly.

"It's late, Thorin," Frerin agreed, his young face full of old pain. The skirmish had not been easy on him, and old memories were surfacing.

Steeling himself against the frustration, Thorin straightened. "There is indeed something to be said for stars," he told his star. "I will be back, Gimli."

The lone Dwarrow smiled absently, though sorrow was dancing in his eyes and his face never turned away from the gem-studded bowl of night. The wind tugged at his unbound beard with icy, taunting fingers.

* * *

"Your hair is whiter than mine ever was," Óin told Glóin gleefully.

"Come here, my little fox, my wee Azaghîth!" Glóin said, bending forward (a little creakily) and reaching out for Gimizh. The Dwarfling whooped and barrelled directly into Glóin's stomach, and the old Dwarrow nearly doubled over with an 'oof!'

"Now, Gimizh," he croaked.

"Grandpa, can we go and see the battlements, please please please?" Gimizh said, his brown eyes wide and pleading and near-impossible to look at without melting (in Óin's wholly unbiased opinion). "They won't let me go up alone any more, an' Wee Thorin says it's because they're more scared o' me than they are of the orcs, but Balin says that's a lie. But the battlements are brilliant, Grandpa, and there's lots to see, and Dori's always so cross an' he's awful fun when he's cross."

"Oh, if Nori an' Ori could hear you say that," Óin murmured, and he followed his brother and his grand-nephew through the corridors of Erebor. Stockpiles of weapons were crammed in nearly every corner, placed high on racks far out of the reach of grubby little hands (Wee Thorin was easily tall enough to reach them, but a healthy respect for his mother made him refuse to touch them every single time Gimizh begged).

"No, Gimizith, we're not to go to the battlements," Glóin told his grandson, ignoring the cry of 'aaaaaawwww!' that greeted this news. "We could go to the Pool of Songs?"

"But Kumath-zâram is _boring,"_ Gimizh complained, and then he clambered up into Glóin's arms. "Come on, Grandpa. You could show me the battlements, couldn't you? I promise I'd be good, honest – I wouldn't touch anything hardly at all, and I'd stick by your side lots of the time!"

Glóin laughed and poked Gimizh's little cheek, covered in dark red fuzz. "Oh, is that so? Honesty in reporting, at least, my lad!"

Gimizh beamed. "I could fight the orcs real good. I'm going to go on quests like Uncle Gimli an' be brave as brave an' get taller than Wee Thorin even. You'll see."

"I'd like to see how you manage that," Glóin said, bouncing Gimizh higher in his arms and standing. "Fundin's line has always been taller than Gróin's, I'm sorry to say."

Óin scowled and folded his arms. "At least we both beat Balin."

"That's my great-grandfather, isn't it?" Gimizh squinted up at Glóin, and then began to play with the beads threaded into the huge snow-white mass of his beard.

"That's right. An' for the sake of my poor old nerves, my little terror, please hold off on any quests. One at a time is quite enough," said Glóin, holding Gimizh close and looking out of the window over the sea of orcs that crept over the northern foothills of the Mountain like a vile, bristling carpet. "Besides," he added, "I'm thinkin' we've got quite enough trouble to be goin' on with."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TBC..._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Dartho ennas- wait there  
> Savo hîdh nen gurth - have peace in death  
> Mellon nin – my friend.
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  bahyurur akhûnîth - wise young man  
> Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin – May your beard continue to grow longer.  
> Ugbal bâhûn – greatest friend.  
> Kidhuzurkurdu – Golden Heart  
> Ukrâd – the greatest heart  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys  
> 'amad – mother  
> Gimli – star  
> Kumath-zâram- Song-pool  
> Ikhuzh - stop  
> gamil bâhûn- old friend
> 
> The 'Holbytla': The Rohirrim have legends of a little people, called the Holbytla, in their oral history. It has been suggested that the Rohirrim knew Hobbits during their Wandering Days in the Vale of Anduin, before they settled in the Shire. The word 'Hobbit' is derived from 'Holbytla'.
> 
> Some phrases taken from the books and from the movies.
> 
> Thank you all so, so, so much! I can't tell you what a kind word or a kudos means to me at this very stressful time. I'm still so giddy and gobsmacked over the reaction to this fic, and I can't thank you enough. *hugs and nekkid Dwarves*


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello all! Here, have a super-long chapter. It just WOULD NOT END._
> 
>  
> 
> **Art and Artiness**  
>  _Okay. There is a lot. Strap yourself in and gird your loins. Are they girded? ;)_
> 
> _1\. The awesome and lovely[flukeoffate](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com) has completed the art of [Bomfur and Genna's Den](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/66256930806/bomfur-and-gennas-den-by-yorikosakakibara), featuring babies Bombur and Bofur! _
> 
> _2.[JEZA-RED](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com) ~~THE INCREDIBLE SPACE WIZARD~~ HAS DONE IT AGAIN - AND AGAIN - AND AGAIN. Here is [Thorin and Baby!Fili](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/65978585541/because-newest-chapter-of-sansukh-made-me-think) in a rare moment of peace and happiness (I AM CRY), and here is [Bofur and Gimris](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/66069082875/gimris-and-bofur-are-such-an-amazing-couple-in) being disgustingly, adorably, behattedly in love, and here is the great Dwarven songbird, [Baris Crystaltongue, daughter of Bombur and Alris](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/66069864129/baris-bomburs-and-alris-oldest-daughter-d), and here is (I DIED WITH A SMILE ON MY LIPS) [_MY DARLING GIMLI AND LEGOLAS_](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/66354429237/sansukh-somewhat-d-gimli-and-legolas-are-so) ARRRRRRGH OMG (TELL MY CAT I LOVE HER)._
> 
> _3\. The gorgeous, delightful, lovely and talented-as-all-heck[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) has drawn this awesome mini-comic inspired by [that nekkid bathing scene.](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/66173782418/elves-and-dwarves-have-some-very-different-views) Yes. THAT one. (Poor, poor Aragorn. *stifles sniggers forever*)_
> 
> _4.[Gremlinloquacious](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com) the Wonderful has drawn a hilarious comic entitled [Puppy Love](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/66102993420/puppy-love-also-entitled-frerin-no-whilst-gimli) or, "Frerin No". That should probably tell you something! :)_
> 
> _5\. The amazing[celebrenithil](http://celebrenithil.tumblr.com) has drawn [Legolas](http://celebrenithil.tumblr.com/post/66445001352/im-not-sure-how-it-happened-but-a-post-on-my). And may I say? RUN DON'T WALK TO SEE THIS - AND READ THE STORY TOO. This is amazing and beautiful and heartbreaking and OH. _
> 
>   __  
> __  
> **A COUPLE OF ANNOUNCEMENTS OKAY YOU GUYS SORRY I KNOW THIS IS GETTING SUPER LONG**
> 
> Part the A: Firstly - the amazingerriffic [fuckthisimgoingtoerebor](fuckthisimgoingtoerebor.tumblr.com) has posted the podfics of Sansûkh [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/61629)! So many places to download and listen - and please do, because fae has put in a _phenomenal_ amount of work and they sound astonishing and so professional and so _wow_ I am freaking stupidly lucky and I'll smooch the face off anyone who says otherwise. 
> 
> Part the B: So, this story has garnered a truly HUGE amount of fanart (I AM NOT KIDDING I AM SO OVERWHELMED AND HUMBLED IT IS INCREDIBLE), and so I have decided to make one huge Sansûkh Masterpost over on tumblr where you can see everything if you'd like! Here it is: [The Sansûkh Master Post](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost).
> 
> THat's it. *fingers fall off*
> 
> Ily guys. x Dets
> 
>  
> 
> (btw, for those who were asking? I bought a house we are go I repeat Operation: 30 years of slavery to a bank IS A GO WOOHOO)

Thorin shrugged off the clinging starlight, and held up his arm. "Here, namadul, lean on me."

Kíli looked up with startled, red-rimmed eyes and nearly fell off the hillock he was perched on. "Oh my Maker," he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "You scared the life out of me!" Then he pulled a face. "Well, when I say _life..."_

Thorin's lips twitched. "Most droll. Come, you look dreadful."

Kíli grumbled underneath his breath, but came dutifully all the same. His hair was a bird's nest, and the bags beneath his eyes were even deeper than the ones underneath Fíli's. He slumped against Thorin and yawned until his jaw clicked, every molar in his head showing in the dim, smoky daylight.

"Delightful," Thorin growled.

"Sorry," Kíli mumbled, leaning more heavily against him. "Bit tired."

"Aye, I know, Nidoyel, and I am here to help. Where are Frodo and Sam?"

Kíli rubbed at his eye and gestured vaguely with his other hand. "That way. Gollum made a horrible ruckus about eating lembas just before, and so now he's sulking. Sam is all huffy because the little sneak complained about his cooking. Frodo..." Kíli shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Frodo is distant and sad one minute, determined and grim the next."

Thorin glanced over in the direction Kíli had indicated. "That is disheartening news," he said softly to himself. "Has he changed so very much?"

Kíli's face screwed up. "I... don't know. It's hard to explain. Sam is the only one who can get him to act like a Hobbit again, and those times are growing fewer and further apart. The rest of the time he acts..." He broke off and shrugged again. "Like I said, hard to explain."

Thorin kept looking out over the misty, bleak landscape, squeezing Kíli's arm absently. "Like a Hobbit again," he repeated, and frowned. Yes, that was true. Frodo had been an ordinary Hobbit, interested in mushrooms and hot baths and songs and good pipeweed. Bilbo had been pleased that his young charge could love his homeland and his people in ways that he himself could not.

"Are they on the move?" Thorin said, shaking off his mood and refocusing on Kíli. His nephew nodded.

"You missed all the excitement earlier. Frodo fell in."

"Fell _in?"_ Thorin echoed blankly, and then he noticed the shifting nature of the landscape around him. Many of the grassy tussocks floated freely amongst the brackish pools, and the low fog was not merely mist, but the acrid, rotting stench of a marsh.

Kíli laughed sourly. "See the lights? Don't look at them too closely. Frodo followed them and ended up splashing straight into the water, and it was Gollum's quick fingers and clever water-skills that pulled him free."

The lights were slightly hypnotic, and they called to Thorin in the same manner that the stars of the Chamber of Sansûkhul did. He tore his gaze away. "What happened here?" he said, his voice low and rough.

"Gollum said it was a battle," Kíli said, and he yawned again. The sheer wall of the Mountains of Shadow rose up before them, grey and forbidding.

"Dagorlad," said Thorin with a long, drawn-out breath of realisation. "The Last Alliance. Here is where our people laid down their lives for their allies - and in return our allies forgot us and our sacrifice utterly."

"I thought it was to stop Mordor," grumbled Kíli, and he held up a hand before Thorin could snap at him. "Look, I'm too tired to listen to a long lecture, so can we go sit with Frodo and Sam before you get a good head of steam going?"

Thorin's eyebrows shot up. "You have grown bold, haven't you," was all he said, moving past his nephew towards the grassy knoll where three small shapes could be seen huddled against the skyline.

Kíli blinked, and then he scurried after him. "Wait, you're not angry?"

Thorin smiled to himself as Kíli wrung his hands, hovering behind him as he made his way over the stinking marshlands. "No."

"Why? I mean, not that I'm not glad that you're not angry, it's just not... normal for you," Kíli said anxiously.

Thorin glanced back over his shoulder. "Thank you, that is most flattering, namadul."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Kíli said, throwing up his hands. "Are you...?"

Thorin reached back without turning around and brought his nephew close once more, tucking the smaller body against his side and once again marvelling at how tall Kíli actually was. His nephews always seemed to grow younger in his mind in their absence, and so it was ever a shock to stand by them and see their adult faces, their straight limbs and proud heads. "I am well, Kíli, stop worrying. It will take more than your cheek to unsettle me."

"Never used to," Kíli mumbled, and then he peered up from under his uncombed bangs. "You seem... calmer. Than I can ever remember."

Thorin nodded in acknowledgement. "There are... matters, that I should have faced long ago. I did not. The healing is painful, but it is healing nevertheless."

Kíli looked puzzled. "I don't understand what you're talking about, but you're not cross and that's good," he said eventually, before nodding over to where the two Hobbits lay, quiet and forlorn-looking, amongst a ring of the strange ghostly lights. "There."

"Where is Gollum?" Thorin wondered, peering into the mist.

"Sulking, probably," Kíli said, leaning heavily against Thorin's shoulders again. Thorin could practically feel how heavy and slow his nephew's limbs were, sluggish with weariness. "He really made a big fuss before."

"Sam is asleep," said Thorin after a moment, frowning. He did not like that.

"What is Frodo doing?" Kíli said, and he peered over the Hobbit's shoulder. Then he let out a curse and scrambled back, nearly landing on his backside.

"What?" Thorin barked, and he turned to look.

_**King Under the Mountain** _

A strangled cry escaped him, and he threw up his hand as he staggered back. The bright glint of gold sparkled before his eyes, and the jolt to his heart and to his near-forgotten goldlust was nearly unbearable. "No," he gasped.

_**Thorin Thráinul, heir of Durin, last King of your line** _

The voice was so soft, so _soft!_ And yet it pressed upon him like a vice, squeezing his mind until he could not hear aught else. Thorin clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate upon the breath rushing in and out of his lungs with such force, the ferocious pounding of the pulse in his neck, the shaking of his legs. Behind his closed eyes, a wheel of fire burned.

"It is the Enemy," he choked, and behind him he could faintly hear Kíli's moan of horror and dread. "The Enemy: he can see us, just as Gandalf does. The Ring – Frodo must put away the Ring!"

Then he shuddered uncontrollably as the voice hissed out the syllables of his Dark-name. Dimly he could feel his mouth forming the shape of the word, 'no' – and then the booming in his ears was interrupted from an unexpected quarter.

"So bright. So beautiful. Ahh, _preciousssss."_

Frodo's hand, dirty and worn, snapped around the Ring like a coiled spring, and he tucked the chain back into his shirt. The voice disappeared.

Thorin slumped to the ground, his heart still pounding in his throat. Kíli crawled over to him and clutched tightly to his arm. "Uncle..." he managed. His voice was wobbly and weak.

"Give me a moment," said Thorin in a voice that felt choked with dust. He turned to his nephew and pulled him close, taking comfort in the solidity of him, the familiarity.

Eventually, as he always did, Kíli began to squirm. He did not have the patience to stay in an embrace for long. He was still trembling when he pulled back, but his dark eyes were full of resolve and there was a glint of their former mischief in them. Resilient, his nephews. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Thorin nodded, and then paused. "No," he said, and then smiled bleakly. "It called to me as nothing else has done since the Arkenstone. I am... afraid."

Kíli's snort broke what was left of the tension. "Well, who wouldn't be? That is the _One Ring._ Brrr. I need an ale after that."

"We can leave in a moment," Thorin said, and then grasped Kíli's shoulder. "When my legs will bear me."

Kíli gave him a quick glance and then settled down beside him. "On second thought, right, yes. A quick rest. And then ale?"

"And then ale," Thorin confirmed, and tousled the boy's mad hair. Kíli's grin was more subdued than normal, but he could have cried to see it.

Frodo had scrambled to his feet to crouch down before the wretched thing. The Hobbit's blue eyes were piercing and sharp, and all traces of weariness had fallen from him. "Who are you?" he whispered.

"Mustn't ask us. Not its business," Gollum said, stroking the palm of his hand gently with one long finger. Thorin steeled himself at that gesture, the same that had hovered over the bright glint of gold in the Hobbit's hand.

"Gandalf told me you were one of the River-folk," Frodo pressed. Kíli shared a look with Thorin.

"D'you see?" he whispered. "It's changing him. I don't know how. But he's wiser and sadder than he was – and stronger too. He doesn't feel that fire or hear that voice."

"He is a Hobbit," Thorin said, and hauled himself to his feet. His legs still felt weak, but they bore his weight.

"Cold be heart and hand and bone, cold be travellers far from home," the wizened old thing sing-songed, and Thorin frowned.

"Do you know this rhyme?" he muttered to Kíli, who shook his head. "It feels old. Very old."

"He said your life was a sad story," Frodo said, scooting closer to Gollum, great blue eyes intent.

The creature's mouth twisted, and he spat, "they do not see what lies ahead, when sun has failed and moon is dead!"

"You were not so very different from a Hobbit once," Frodo said low, and Thorin recoiled once more. Bile rose in his throat. _No, not Bilbo, no._ "Were you, Sméagol?"

The wretch froze, and his pale lamplike eyes grew even huger, glittering like moons themselves in the dark. "What did you call me?" he whispered.

"That was your name once, a long time ago," said Frodo, and a terrible pity was in his face. Thorin had seen that pity on the face of a Hobbit before, upon his deathbed, and the guilt rose in him in a familiar surge. He ruthlessly pushed it back. Frerin would be disappointed.

"My name," Gollum breathed, and a smile pulled at the wasted lips. It made him look like a different creature entirely. "My name. _Sméagol_."

A scream cut the air.

Sam jerked awake, sitting upright at once. "Black riders!" he exclaimed, and gathered his pans together with a great clattering and banging.

"Hide!" screeched Gollum. " _Hide!"_

Frodo cried out and clutched at his shoulder, and his face was white as chalk and locked in some terrible memory. Sam clawed at him and dragged at him until they were hidden under the only shelter for miles around: a little spindly spinney of trees, stinking and creeping with mud and vines. The screech of the Nazgûl cut through Thorin's chest again, and he span on his heel, scouring the flat, marshy plain, wishing desperately for the familiar dragon's-tooth hilt of Orcrist to fill his palm.

"Look!" Kíli shouted, his voice high with fear. Thorin whirled, but Kíli's hand did not point out across the marsh, but _up._ "Look!"

"They will see us, they will see us," Gollum wept, and Frodo rocked back in agony as some hidden pain wracked his body.

"I thought they were dead!" Sam gasped, holding Frodo as still as he could manage.

"Dead? Aye," Thorin growled, staring up at the vast, foul thing. The sight beggared belief: he could scarcely comprehend it. "You are surrounded by the dead, Samwise Gamgee, and thank the Maker that not all of them mean you harm." He paused, and then set his jaw. "That must be the creature that Legolas shot down over the Anduin. Some new sorcery of Mordor."

"Wraiths! Wraiths on wings!" Gollum moaned, and he wrung his pale long-fingered hands together. "They are calling for it. They are calling for the Precious!"

"No!" Kíli blurted, and he grabbed at Thorin's arm. "It can't...!"

"It grows stronger," Thorin said grimly, staring up at the circling Nazgûl. "It could not call me before, and yet now it tries to tempt the dead. It could only summon the Watcher in Moria. Who knows what it can achieve now?"

"The Black Gate is close. He won't have to carry it much longer," Kíli said in a small voice, and he did not mention his fears.

As the great flying serpent moved away, Thorin felt himself sag with relief and delayed reaction. "Come on," he said eventually. "You are exhausted, and this has been a hard watch."

"I spoke too soon when I said you'd missed all the excitement," said Kíli, his tone subdued. He kept himself latched to Thorin's arm as though letting go would mean freewheeling through the night sky.

Thorin glanced down at the lights by his feet, and shuddered when the fair Elven face under the water began to waver and shimmer in horrifying and indescribable ways. "Let's get that ale you mentioned," he growled.

Kíli blew out a breath between his teeth. "If you weren't already my King, I'd vote for you," he said fervently.

* * *

Little Frerin Dwalinul chewed absently upon his father's beard, and watching, his ghostly uncle smiled fondly.

"You will have a time with him when he hits his forties," he said to Dwalin, who was carting his youngest about in his arms as he flicked through Dori's reports of the weaponry efforts.

"Da," Frerin said, still chewing at Dwalin's beard, "why can't we go outside an'more?"

"Because it isn't safe, my little Ghivasha. Stop that," Dwalin said, absently flicking the lock of his beard from his son's chubby grip.

"Why?"

"Because there are lots of nasty old orcs and goblins out there who would hurt a fine little lad like you."

"Why?"

"Because they hate Dwarves."

"Why?"

"Because we've pounded them into paste over the years, an' we'll do it again."

"Why?"

Dwalin growled, and Frerin giggled.

Balin chuckled. "I do wish I could have taught them their histories and letters, nadad," he told his brother wistfully. "With your impatience, they will be lucky if they know who Durin was."

"Can I go see Mister Dori?" asked Frerin. He had lost a tooth only a couple of days before, and his voice lisped a little as a result. The result was charming, if a little exasperating to the owner of said missing tooth, who could no longer bite through the sticks of honey-candy he loved so much and had to suck them instead, getting "all sticky and mucky, yuck!"

"Mister Dori is busy today," Dwalin said, once more removing his beard from his son's mouth. Frerin loved to gnaw on braids. Wee Thorin's hair was permanently fraying at the ends thanks to his youngest sibling's habit. "You can keep your old Da company, aye?"

"Awright," Frerin said, settling back down into Dwalin's massive arms. The little lad was getting larger, and it was clear that of the three children of Dwalin and Orla, Frerin would easily be the tallest.

Though, Balin thought proudly, his _own_ namesake was far and away the strongest and cleverest.

"Why you have to read all that stuff, Da?" Frerin said, sticking the damp lock back into his mouth _again._ Dwalin didn't even react as he took it away, still poring over the report.

"I've got to get all this together for the King an' Aunt Dís," he said, and Balin shook his head, chuckling to himself. It seemed that Gimli's old nickname for the Princess had spread until every child of the house of Durin called her 'Aunt Dís,' regardless of their true relationship. "All those Orcs crowdin' on our doorstep mean we've got to know at _all times_ what we've got, and..."

There was a knock at the door, and Dwalin broke off his explanation to call gruffly, "door's open."

It was Barís Crystaltongue, and she was dressed plainly without the jewels through her lip and hanging over her throat that denoted her status as a Master Singer. "Lord Dwalin," she said, and then she fidgeted. She had never looked more like Bombur, Balin considered. "Um. I thought I should have a word with you..."

  


_Barís, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/66069864129/baris-bomburs-and-alris-oldest-daughter-d)_

"I'm a little busy," Dwalin said pointedly, and then he pulled his beard out of Frerin's grip yet again. Balin had to stuff his hand into his mouth to stop his chuckles from growing so loud that he could not hear his brother speak. Ah, but it was wonderful to see his fierce, surly, impatient nadadith as such a good and patient father! "If it's about the damned Elves an' their singing, I know, I _know,_ an' I don't know what 'tra-la-la-lally' means either."

"No, it's about the war," she said, and ducked her head. Her dimpled smile, merry and blithe, was nowhere to be seen. "I... I had an idea. I thought I should bring it to you."

He frowned. "Well, I suppose. Barís, you might have spoken to your mother and father about this first..."

"No!" she burst out, her marvellous voice rising, and then she closed her eyes and bunched her fists. "They would stop me. Barum and Bomfrís are the ones who are the fighters: I'm just a musician."

"Now wait a moment, _just_ a musician..." Dwalin began hotly, to Balin's secret delight.

"So, at least those fiddle lessons gave you _some_ musical appreciation," he murmured.

"Just listen to me," she implored, and she sat down and pulled the chair closer to the grizzled general and the little boy. "We need the Dale-Men, don't we?"

Dwalin stiffened. "Who told you that?" he growled.

"No one told me," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's obvious. We need them. We're stuck inside the Mountain, and although the Orcs cannot get in, neither can _we_ get _out._ We need an outside force, and Mirkwood will send no more. It has its own troubles."

"We're holding our own in the sorties so far," Dwalin began, and she tutted with irritation.

"Yes, shooting arrows at the army until they withdrew out of the bowshot of even the Elves," she said, and raised a reddish-brown eyebrow. "I _do_ live with my sister, remember?"

"Ah." Dwalin looked down, and then stifled a grunt as he pulled his soggy beard from Frerin's mouth. "Er. Ignore that."

"We need someone to attack from another front, giving us the distraction we need to open the Gates and attack without exposing ourselves to invasion," she said, tapping at her lip.

"Aye, I know." Dwalin gave her a tired look. "I've sent every raven and even a few thrushes, but Dale willnae answer. We are trapped."

She smiled faintly. "Unless we slip out."

He frowned. "You think I haven't thought o' that? The Mountain is _surrounded,_ Barís."

She shrugged easily. "So tunnel under them."

"What – tunnel _under_ -" Dwalin actually stuttered, and then he stared at the singer as though she had handed him Durin's own crown.

She smiled. "I _am_ a miner's daughter - and a miner's niece," she said, and she stood and smoothed down her plain dress. "Anyway, I wanted to come and give you my idea."

He stared at her some more, his mismatched eyes wide.

Frerin took the opportunity to slip his favourite lock of Dwalin's beard back into his mouth.

Balin howled with laughter until he cried.

* * *

They passed through the Westfold, gathering refugees as they went. They passed through burned-out villages, the devastated houses standing with their doors askew and their windows open and blackened like hollow eyes.

"This is abominable," breathed Ori, and Bifur stepped closer to him, shoulders bunching, a great black-and-white guard dog.

"Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu," he rumbled, gazing sadly over the ruins of houses and the blackened stalks that were all that was left of fields, and then he patted Ori's tawny hair absently.

The snow-capped peaks of the Lavamabbad rose up out of the rolling green hills, and Thorin gazed up at them with a sense of relief. "The White Mountains," he murmured.

"A decent looking spot, I suppose," Bifur said, scratching at his tangled beard. "How come we ain't ever put a Khuzd- ezùleg here?"

"We've never spent long enough in Rohan to discover whether there were ores or jewels to be found, I suppose," said Frerin, shrugging.

Suddenly a cry rose from every throat, and hands were raised to point towards a deep valley that nestled between the arms of the mountain range.

"Helm's Deep!"

Crow-haunted cliffs rose either side of the massive, frowning fortress that blocked the entire valley's width. High walls of ancient stone glowered down upon them, and within there stood a lofty tower.

By Thorin's side, Frerin whistled lowly. " _That_ is a pretty piece of work," he said, impressed.

"Aye," Thorin agreed, scanning the great keep with a critical eye. "They say none have ever taken the valley of the Hornburg. I am beginning to realise why."

"That's almost Dwarvish," said Ori with satisfaction. "Oooh, I'm going to like it here, I think."

Gimli seemed to be of the same mind as he stumped up through the causeway and through the doors to the bailey. There was a smaller keep set within the great walls, carved into the good grey stone of the White Mountains. "Very nice," Gimli murmured to himself, looking around. He smoothed a hand over the close-fitting stones of the wall, and then gave them an approving pat.

"The keep is to your liking then, mellon nin?" said Legolas, looking down upon him. His grief was still present in his eyes and voice, but he had returned to himself as much as possible.

Gimli looked up and then patted the wall again. "Aye, very much so."

They led the horses towards a grand stable, and Arod was given water and mash for his long journey. As Legolas was leading the horse bearing the two children towards the next stall, a cry rang out that echoed from the carved rafters: "Éothain! Freda!"

"Mama!" Freda shrieked, and a woman with long and unkempt hair and a tear-ravaged face ran forward to scoop both children into her arms and press her face into their clothes, sobbing with relief and joy.

Gimli smiled and pushed back his helm with a thumb, watching. "Look, Elf. Not all is dark in this world."

"No," said Legolas, and he sighed soundlessly as he glanced down upon Gimli again. "There is yet great good to be found."

Ori sucked in a breath, and then he shot a measuring glance over at Thorin. Whatever he saw in Thorin's face made his shoulders slump.

Éothain reached for his mother, and she peppered his face with kisses even as Freda wrapped herself around both mother and brother like a small but determined blanket and sobbed and sobbed with a smile on her lips.

"Ah, now," Bifur said, and he smiled gently without a hint of his normal unhinged grin. "Isn't that a nice ending?"

"It isn't over yet," Frerin tossed back over his shoulder. Thorin hushed him.

"Allow them a moment in which to find peace," he said quietly. "After the loss of Aragorn, they sorely need it."

"We should attend the King," Gimli said eventually.

"He may not need us," Legolas sighed, and Gimli sighed as well and nodded.

  
[](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Awaiting-the-King-s-Decision-501601050)  
Awaiting the King's Decision, by [muse-ical](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Awaiting-the-King-s-Decision-501601050)  


"Aye, perhaps so. But it is our duty and I would not shirk it." He crossed to a stablehand (who was gawking like a simpleton at the Dwarf and the Elf, and jerked back violently when the Dwarf addressed him directly), and said, "lad, would you take us to the Keep? We must make our attendance."

"This way," the boy squeaked, and nearly ran into the wall in his surprise and shock.

Leaving the small family to their privacy, the pair were led to a hall in which the master of the Westfold, a thin, hard Man stood poring over lists of supplies. The hall was less fair and beautiful than Meduseld, but it was fine and large nonetheless. Legolas hovered behind Gimli's shoulder as the pair waited for the arrival of the King.

Then the Man sighed and pushed a hand through his hair as he leaned on one elbow. He finally seemed to notice his odd guests, and gave them a courteous if curious look. "Greetings, my lords," he said, and Thorin noted with approval that the Man was making a valiant effort not to stare. "I am Erkenbrand of the Westfold. May I help you?"

"Nay, thank you," said Legolas. "We wait for the King."

"Tell us if we're in your way," added Gimli.

"The King?" Erkenbrand blinked. "But the King is weighed down like a tree under winter frosts, he cannot..."

The doors flew back and Gamling strode in, followed by Háma and the lords of the Éored of Meduseld. Erkenbrand bowed hurriedly, and then he gaped in truth, for following the host was the shape of Théoden-King, in his full armour, with his helm under his arm and his eyes hard and glittering. "Erkenbrand," he said, and his voice was full and hearty, "tell me of the lie of the land and the state of the stores. What have we laid by, and how much more do you need?"

"My King...!" Erkenbrand gasped, and bowed even lower. "I had never thought..."

Théoden laughed grimly. "You thought I was back in my Hall with blankets tucked about my knees, drooling into my gruel. So it was. But not now." He gripped Erkenbrand's forearm and drew him upright. "We have come to the aid of the Westfold. Now tell me, how do things lie?"

Erkenbrand's face was amazed, and then he laughed a short, dry laugh. "Well, masters," he said to Legolas and Gimli, "it seems strange folk may speak true in these strange days."

Gimli raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Legolas smiled faintly.

"I am most glad to see you, my Lord," the Man said, turning back to Théoden and grasping his hand thankfully in return. "Most, most glad. Here, take my chair, and I shall give you what news I may."

"Théoden-King," Gimli rumbled, and the King paused in taking his seat, his hand already picking up a report. "Do you need us?"

Théoden gave them a long look full of sympathy. "I thank you for your pains and for seeing me here, but you should make ready in what way you find best," he said, and compassion for the loss of Aragorn was in his face. "I shall send for you, Master Dwarf and Master Elf, should I need your counsel."

Gimli bowed in the best Dwarvish fashion. "At your service," he said, and Legolas gave a graceful bow behind him, long arm sweeping out to his side.

As they exited the hold, they nearly ran directly into the Lady Éowyn. Frerin immediately gave a satisfied sigh and absently began to tug at his golden hair. " _Finally,_ " he said, and then settled back to gaze at the White Lady of Rohan as though he would never tire of the sight.

Thorin carefully hid his grin.

"My lady," Gimli said politely.

She inclined her head gracefully, the reactions of her upbringing still engrained even though she wore but a travelling dress and her arms were burdened with a basket of wheat. "Lord Gimli, Lord Legolas," she said, and her eyes flickered behind them, before fixing back upon Legolas with a hint of panic in their depths. "Lord Aragorn... where is he?"

Gimli's hand tightened upon his belt, and his lips pressed together until they shone white and bloodless even under his fine beard. "He fell," he eventually said, the words clipped and strangled.

She rocked back, her face stricken.

Legolas bent his fair head. "My dearest friend, have you no words of comfort for her as you did for me?" he murmured.

Gimli closed his eyes. "I find I am nearly dry of all comfort."

"No," Frerin said forcefully. "Help her!"

"Never," Legolas said, and laid a long pale hand comfortingly on Gimli's massive shoulder. "Never that."

"Oh, not good," Ori whimpered, and his eyes darted between Gimli and Thorin, back and forth, back and forth, until it began to annoy.

"Stop, Ori," he growled. "I will not catch fire nor explode simply because you look at me thus! Gimli deserves his time for sorrow, no more or less than any other Dwarrow. I will not be angry because he is not merry."

Ori's mouth dropped open, and his jaw worked helplessly for a few moments. Then he groaned and put his head in his hands.

"But perhaps there is a little left in me," Gimli said, and he looked up at the Lady with his dark eyes, shining and deep as the roots of the earth. "If there is any chance in this world or the next that Aragorn has survived," he said, "then he will be making his way back to us. Never doubt it."

"If," she said, and gasped in pain, her fingers flying to her mouth and the basket falling to the ground.

"Oh," Frerin said in anguish, "oh _no._ Help her, I said, not make it worse!"

"Shh, nadad," Thorin said, and gently released Frerin's hair from his iron grip before he tugged it straight out of his head. "No words can help at times like these."

Frerin gave him a dirty look, and then span back to gaze up at Éowyn with imploring eyes.

"It is a fair chance," Gimli said firmly. "Aragorn is a mighty Man, and he has braved many dangers and won. I will not succumb to grief, not yet."

She blinked, tears shivering from her lashes. "And you?" she said, turning to Legolas. "You who have seen so many years and so many Men die, do you also believe thusly, or have your centuries taught you better?"

Legolas stiffened imperceptibly. "The years pass," he said, and his hand tightened upon Gimli's shoulder as though for reassurance. "But Elves do not. I have less wisdom in this than you, Lady. Listen to Gimli, and do not lose hope."

She stared at them both, and then she turned away, pushing through the crowds to disappear from view.

"She speaks from the first madness of sorrow," Legolas said. "Do not pay it any mind."

Gimli shook his head. "I do not." He rubbed at his forehead wearily, and then he patted Legolas' hand, still resting upon his shoulder. "Now, laddie, I'm all right. No need to fret."

Thorin closed his eyes. "We can be of no help here."

"That is not true," said Gimli, his deep voice soft and intense. "You help me."

Thorin's eyes flew open, and he stared at his star for a few moments, before he dropped his head in acknowledgement. "I am glad I have brought you something, then," he said, and some of the pressure in his chest eased. The debt he owed this Dwarrow suddenly did not seem so heavy.

"Wow," said Ori in a breathless half-whisper.

"I _said,_ didn't I?" Frerin said, rather smugly. He folded his arms and tossed his sharp Durin chin into the air.

"Ai-oi, ulganul mahumb," Bifur swore in a numb voice, his face absolutely blank.

"Now, now, language," Ori said weakly, patting Bifur's hand. He then turned to Thorin and swallowed a couple of times and said, "it's a bit unnerving when he answers you like that."

"Yes, I know," Gimli said, and grinned, though it was still rather melancholy. Ori squeaked and bit down upon his mittens, and Bifur began to chuckle.

"It is very strange to hear you speak to thin air like that," Legolas said, leading the way from the great Hall at the top of the keep towards the barracks. "I do not think I shall ever become accustomed to it."

Gimli's moustache quirked, as though his lips were fighting a smile. "Are you sure you cannot hear them? For they said nearly the same thing not two seconds ago."

Legolas laughed softly. "I promise you, mellon nin, I cannot hear your kin. I doubt they would care for an Elf hearing their voices."

Gimli frowned, and then sighed, following Legolas through the grey stone corridors. "Aye, you're no doubt right."

"Gimli," Thorin began, and then he stopped. He did not know what he could say to that.

"Ach, don't hurt yourself trying to find the words," Gimli said, and smiled ruefully. "The whole of Erebor still whispers about how bitterly you hated the Elves of Mirkwood. You are my beloved Lord, and I owe you all my duty and loyalty, but I will not take sides in this. He is my friend and I will not hear what you have to say against him."

"No, I didn't – I wasn't about to," Thorin spluttered, and then he growled beneath his breath. "Gimli, that is _not_ what I was about to say! I am glad you have his friendship!"

Gimli stopped suddenly, his face utterly astonished. The abrupt halt of his heavy bootsteps on stone left behind a hush filled with strange echoes. "What?" he said, dumbfounded, and then he shook his head and said again, rather more loudly, " _what?"_

Thorin opened his mouth, and found he had nothing in his head to say.

"Gimli?" Legolas said, turning around to fix him with a worried look. "What is it?"

"He said..." Gimli faltered, and then he rubbed at his brow and demanded, "what did I just hear? Am I going as deaf as my uncle?"

"Yes, brother, what did he just hear?" Frerin murmured, nudging Thorin's side. Thorin sent him his darkest, blackest scowl. It made his brother snicker, and Bifur began to guffaw and wave a triumphant fist in the air.

"Um, please wait just a moment," said Ori a little too brightly, and then he pushed tentatively at Thorin's other side. "Go on, say what you just said," he hissed. "Say it again. He needs to hear it."

Thorin glared at all of them, and especially Bifur, who had graduated to howling and kicking at the floor.

"Go on!" Ori urged, and Frerin nodded at him from his other side.

"Got to face up to things, big brother," he said, and he smiled their mother's gentle, understanding smile.

Thorin sighed gustily, and let his head fall forward. Belatedly, he remembered that he had tied his hair back that morning and therefore could not hide behind it. Damn.

"I am glad you have his friendship," he said, the syllables feeling rough and unwieldy under his stubborn tongue. "I am. Gimli, it is a comfort to me to know you are not alone, and that one of these Tall Folk cares for you in their way."

"In their way," Gimli echoed, and he snorted softly, though he was smiling again. "Aye, in his way, and I in mine. Thank you, my Lord. I had never thought to have your understanding, but this now gives me hope. If even _you_ can see merit in him, then perhaps our kindreds may not stay sundered and our friendship a secret."

Ori winced, and Thorin grimaced. "Ah, that may be a little ambitious," murmured Ori.

"Indeed," Thorin grumbled. Then he glanced up at where the Elf hovered upon the stair anxiously. "And I did not say I find merit in him! Only that I am glad you have his friendship."

Frerin gave him a pitying look. "Oh, nadad. And you were doing so well."

Gimli's eyebrows shot up, and then he huffed. Meeting Legolas' eyes, he said dryly, "my Lord finds no fault in our friendship, Legolas. He is glad, he tells me."

The strange, piercing Elven eyes widened. "Truly?"

"However," Gimli said, beginning to walk again and taking his customary place at the Elf's left side, "he approves only of the friendship for my sake, it seems. I feel you may have to spend a few more millennia yet in order to win him over."

Legolas let out a surprised laugh, and then he nodded. "I confess, I am not surprised," he said. "I have told you of what transpired between us. He has cause to hate me and mine. But _millennia?_ Gimli, you persist in drawing out the farce to the greatest degree!"

"Twasn't an exaggeration, lad," Gimli said, and grinned again. "Come on, let's find something to eat. I am as hungry as a dozen Hobbits!"

"Never that – you would begin eating the Citadel, and then what walls would stand between us and Isengard?" Legolas smiled, and the pair moved off.

Frerin was staring at Thorin and tapping his foot.

"What?" Thorin said gruffly, and ducked out of the starlight to avoid answering any inconvenient questions. His brother's exasperated growl was the last thing he heard before the light of Gimlîn-zâram took his sight and threw him back into the cool, unchanging world of the dead.

* * *

He felt somewhat guilty later. Not the great, overwhelming surge of guilt and shame and anger that had welled up so often to lodge in his throat and coat his tongue for nigh on eighty years, but a smaller, hot spike of shame. Frerin had given him so much. Gimli had given him so much, and he had fled. Thorin pushed aside his newest piece of work, annoyed with himself, and looked around his workshop.

"Shouldn't have run away from Frerin and Gimli like that," he muttered, and then let his eyes fall on the work, staring through it absently. The daffodils he had engraved around the barrel of the newest pen were slightly lopsided, but he rather thought Bilbo would like them that way.

"I wonder if he would like the golden elanor that grows in the fields of Lothlórien," he mused absently, and then brought himself up short, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. Oh, but he was a fool.

"Stop that, I like your eyes where they are," snapped Bilbo.

Thorin grunted, and then let his hand fall to his workbench. "Would you like that? Elanor for your next pen?" he asked, and the curls bounced as the Hobbit shrugged. His thumbs pressed into the little pockets of his waistcoat, and Thorin wished, oh _how_ he wished, that this Bilbo were not just a figment of his own loneliness and longing; that the real Bilbo, old and creaking and drifting loose in time within the walls of his own mind, would hear him as readily as his imaginary counterpart – as easily as Gimli did. He wanted to step behind Bilbo and feel the smaller body pressed up against his, feel how easily he could tower over him, envelop him, _protect_ him, and yet so easily be brought low. He wanted to slip his own arms around the Hobbit and tuck his own thumbs beside his in the little waistcoat pockets. He wanted to bury his nose in the odd, soft curls, so different to Dwarven hair, so bright. He wanted that sharp little tongue to flay him alive for his crimes and put him back together for his future.

"Bebother and confusticate it, it's the dramatics again," Bilbo groaned, and he rocked back on his furry heels. "You, my grumbling Majesty, have some apologies to make and some long-overdue conversations to have, so please do stop with all this Dwarvish nonsense, make yourself a bracing cup of tea, and _go."_

"Cup of tea?" Thorin said, and laughed under his breath.

"Oh, pish and botheration, you _know_ what I mean," Bilbo said, sniffing. Then he fixed Thorin with quite a decent glare – for a Hobbit. "Go on, stop dithering."

"I hear and obey," Thorin said, and smiled at his irascible, clever, lovely little One, letting it spread over his face slowly and warmly and oh so _easily._

Bilbo flushed. "Oh, that's entirely unfair," he muttered, and then he straightened himself, tugging his waistcoat down firmly. "I like elanor. That will be most... satisfactory. Go on then!"

Thorin took a deep breath, and then another, and when he had taken the third, Bilbo was gone.

He stood there, wordless and somehow emptier than before. The guilt began to creep back, and he gritted his teeth against it. He could feel the passage of time in the push of the blood through his veins, the tick-tick-tick of his lip as he fought against the lines of anger and shame that his face fell into so very naturally.

Then he span on his heel and strode out of his workshop. He had to find his father and grandfather.

Thráin was in his own forge, carefully transferring a cupful of gold into a mold using tongs. Thorin sucked in a breath at the sight of the molten metal, so bright and so beautiful. Then he jerked his eyes up to his father's.

"Hello inùdoy," Thráin said, and his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Somehow, Thorin had forgotten that Thráin always forged with his tongue poking from between his teeth. It seemed like such an important detail to forget. "Wait now – wait a moment until I've done this, and then I'm all yours," he said, never taking his eyes away from his cup and tongs.

Thorin waited with scant patience, unhappily averting his eyes from the clear, shiny stream of gold that poured from the cup into the mold. The minute Thráin had finished, he stepped forwards and said without preamble, "I must speak to you and to grandfather."

"All right, all right," Thráin said absently, taking off his heavy gloves and stretching out his great thick fingers. His glorious beard was bound tightly and tucked beneath a leather apron, and he had a cut-crystal eyeglass strapped to his head. "Just let me clean up a little. This medallion wasn't easy, I'll have you know!"

Despite his impatience, Thorin found himself interested. "Oh?"

"Aye, for your mother," Thráin said proudly. He rubbed at the back of his head with a sheepish expression. "Want to surprise her for her naming day, y'know."

"Ah." It was Frís' birthday? Where did the time go? "I have not prepared anything yet," Thorin confessed as Thráin pulled off his apron and set aside his eyeglass carefully.

"Oh, you've a little time yet, m'boy," Thráin said easily, clapping Thorin on the back with one of his massive hands. "Just – Thorin, don't you dare forget as you did when you were twenty-one!"

"Adad!" Thorin growled, and Thráin laughed again, a deep rolling easy laugh.

"Ach, there's my little storm cloud, thundering away," he said fondly. "Older than me, wiser and harder than me, aye, but sometimes I can see my little lad in that King."

Thorin ducked his head, his face flaming. "You are doing this on purpose," he muttered, and Thráin wrapped a heavy arm around him and led him from the forge.

"Of course I am," he said. "I'm your father: it's part of my job. Now, let's find _my_ father, and you can watch him repay me in kind."

"Splendid," retorted Thorin, and Thráin chuckled again before they fell into step, moving through the grey twilit corridors and twisting tunnels of the Halls of Mahal.

"What's this all about then, son?" Thráin said eventually, and Thorin's eyes immediately fell to his feet. "Ah. That bad?"

"Worse," Thorin said in a low voice, and Thráin grunted.

"Well, no-one can fault our bravery, if not our common sense. Let's face this and get it over with, whatever it is."

Thrór was not in his forge, and neither was he in his rooms. Hrera was not pleased at being interrupted. "Where on earth have you been hiding yourself lately?" she scolded, and Thorin immediately dropped his head. "Oh not _you,_ dear," she said, patting his hand, and then rounded on Thráin. "You! Have you forgotten the way to the table? Should I assign you a guide?"

"I am working, 'amad!" he said, and Thorin settled back, folding his arms, to watch the show. "It is Frís' name-day soon, and..."

"Oh, that is sweet, darling, but do try to remember that you have a mother," she said, and pulled at the vast braids of Thráin's beard. "Tsk. Shocking. Look at what you have done, you smell like a foundry and you look like a highland sheep! Thorin, don't you start smirking over there, my lad, your hair is a disgrace."

"Grandmother!" Thorin protested, and resigned himself to being forever twenty-four in her eyes and no older. It was infuriating.

"Best not to fight it, inùdoy," sighed Thráin as Hrera began to comb out his working-braids, muttering to herself all the while.

"I learned that lesson long ago," Thorin agreed solemnly, and jerked as Hrera pinched his elbow with her long, silver-tipped nails.

"Pair of upstarts," she huffed. "Wait there for your turn. I won't have my family looking like a bunch of tinkers. Longbeards! What are you like!" she exclaimed, and gave Thráin's hair a particularly vicious combing. His eye twitched.

When they finally escaped, Thráin's hair had been smoothed back into a neat barrel plait, and his beard had been worked into two intricate weaves that fell either side of his great deep chest. Thorin's hair had been pulled up and given a thorough oiling ("Just look at this! Disgraceful!") and then Hrera had spent quite some time lamenting the spray of grey at his hairline before weaving a thick braid from the top of his head to hang down his spine, leaving only his side-braids to hand before his ears.

Thráin and Thorin looked at each other. "I won't laugh if you won't," Thráin said with the utmost solemnity.

"These terms are acceptable," Thorin returned gravely, and then they carefully avoided looking at each others' face for the next ten minutes.

They finally found Thrór in the dining hall, though his head was bent over a piece of paper and no food was to hand, only a jug of ale. "Grandfather," Thorin greeted him.

"Mmm," Thrór said, not looking up from his stylus scratching cirth across the paper. "What? I have to finish this report. Balin is as much a taskmaster as his father ever was. Why in Durin's name did we make the Line of Fundin our Senechals? They're tyrants!"

"It appears you could take a break," Thráin said, taking a seat.

"Mmmph," Thrór said again, and then he looked up. His eyebrows immediately shot to his hairline at the sight of them. "I see Hrera got you," he said noncommittally.

"No comment," Thorin groused. Thráin's ensuing cough sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh.

"What's this about then?" Thrór leaned back in his chair and shook his writing hand, before reaching for his ale.

"I don't know, though I _do_ know it is not going to be pleasant. Thorin needs us, and he dropped enough hints for me to be worried," Thráin said, and then he turned to Thorin with an enquiring look. "Inùdoy? What is this about?"

Thorin froze, his breath caught behind his teeth. "Oh," said Thrór, his face falling. "That bad."

"Worse, apparently." Thráin said, and he picked up the jug from the table and poured out two more tankards. "Here. We might be needin' a drop or two of this."

Thrór scowled. "Get your own."

"I just did," Thráin said, raising his tankard and pushing the other over to Thorin. "There. Now. Spit it out, lad. Come on."

Thorin clenched his hands so tightly he could feel his nails pushing into the skin of his palms. "I..." he began. And then he sat back in the chair and grabbed for the ale, taking three long swallows in a row.

" _Very_ bad," judged Thrór. "Right. That means it's either the Hobbit, Erebor, Glóin's lad or the dragon sickness."

Thorin felt his whole body flinch at the last.

"Well, that answers that question," Thráin sighed, and he took a swallow of his own ale, before turning to Thorin. "Why now?"

"What?" Thorin was startled into speaking, though his voice rasped as though it was not his own.

"I've been expecting this conversation for eighty years, my lad," said Thrór gently. "Why now? What pushed you into it?"

Thorin was silent for a moment, and then he looked up. "Many... many things," he said, his voice still rusty and painful. "Boromir. Théoden. My star. But..." he took another sip of ale, and it hurt to swallow it. "But mostly Frerin."

"Ahhh," breathed out Thrór, and the old sadness and the guilt – so, so familiar – began to dance in his light blue eyes. "Yes, your brother is like your mother that way."

"He's certainly not as thick-headed as the Durin side of our family," said Thráin, and Thrór snorted loudly, and then the pair of them clashed their tankards together in a moment of black humour.

"I couldn't stop it," Thorin said, his teeth grating together so forcefully that he could feel the muscle in his jaw spasming. "I couldn't _stop_ it..."

"Aye," Thráin said, and his great thick-fingered hand slipped around Thorin's face to turn his eyes up to his. His palm rustled against his beard, sword-callused and forge-rough. "This is not something you can fight, Thorin. Madness is not like... like denying yourself the taste of ale, or forcing yourself to run that last few miles in training. It is not something that can be overcome with simple willpower. It is not about _strength._ "

"You have never been short of willpower, grandson," Thrór added, and he reached across the table to grasp Thorin's hand in his. "But madness is no respecter of will. It affects all regardless, the weak and the strong alike. There is no difference."

"But..." Thorin tried to say, but his throat felt full of sand and his father's hand upon his cheek was warm and solid.

"No, lad," Thrór said, softly and firmly, and it was the voice of the King Under the Mountain, the great builder, Thrór the Great. "I know, I know better than any how it is and how it feels and how you must face yourself afterwards. And I have good days and I have bad days, but through all my days I must remember: I am not my madness, and it is not me. I am Thrór, I am Umùhud-zaharâl, and that is who I _truly_ am. My madness is but a tiny part of that."

Thorin stared at him, and then he dropped his head into his hands. "I do not know who I am when I cannot be strong," he said, trying not to feel the yawning pit beneath him. "And now you tell me that it does not matter at all!"

"Because it doesn't, inùdoy," Thráin said, and he wrapped his arm around Thorin's shoulders again. "Did being tortured into madness make me weak or strong?"

"How can you _say_ that," Thorin very nearly snarled, and Thráin made a soft sound of exasperation deep in his throat.

"It doesn't matter which," he said with the patience of one who is teaching an important lesson. "What matters is that it happened. For you, it matters not whether you are weak or strong. That is _nothing_. The strongest Dwarrow can quake before a battle – and the weakest may hold their heads high and never flinch. What matters is that you must manage with what you have been dealt."

 _So do all those who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us._ The Wizard's dry, gruff, kind voice rattled in Thorin's skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

"You do not have to lead a forgotten people here, Thorin," said Thrór with infinite gentleness. "You do not have to be the symbol of strength for a rootless and discarded race. You need only be yourself. Put aside these useless questions of weakness and strength, and lead as yourself."

"And if I do not know who that is?" Thorin looked up with stinging eyes.

"You do," Thráin said, amused. "You have always known. It is the gift our Maker gave us."

Thorin's eyelids slammed shut again, and in a scarce-audible tone he breathed out his Dark-Name.

"Aye," said Thrór. "He told us who we were, deep in our hearts, lest we ever lose sight of it."

Thorin breathed in slowly through his nose, feeling the air fill his lungs and then drain away as he let it out. "I... I will try."

"That's all we can do, some days," said Thrór, and the sound of his tankard hitting the table resounded through the dining hall. "Now, that was very heavy and very thirsty conversation, and your brute of a father has drunk all my ale. Be a good lad and get us another jug, won't you?"

Thorin peered out from between his fingers, and his grandfather smiled kindly at him and waved the empty jug. "Get it yourself," Thorin muttered, but he stood anyway and began to make his way over to the huge barrels that never emptied.

He was interrupted by a body slamming into his, and then there was a blurry Dwarrow grabbing his side-plaits and gabbling frantically. "He'sbackhe'sbackhe'sback!" said the blur in a high-pitched voice, and Thorin shook his head and tried to focus.

"Wait, calm down," he ordered, and the blur resolved itself into Frerin, grinning ear to ear and nearly dancing in delight.

"He's back! Can you believe it? I can hardly believe it! Oh, she's going to be so happy!" Frerin crowed, and Thorin grabbed at his brother's shoulder to see if that made any difference to his hyperactivity.

Apparently not.

"Who?" he demanded. "Who is back? Gandalf?"

"No!" scoffed Frerin, before he began to hop from one leg to the other. "Aragorn! He's alive, and he's back!"

"Aragorn!" Thorin repeated in amazement, and then he threw back his head and laughed in sudden, startled joy. Gimli had been right!

"But it's not all good," Frerin said, sobering as quickly as he had appeared. "He comes to Helm's Deep with an army at his heels, and not a friendly one. Isengard is emptied, he says, and all the orcs of Orthanc, ten thousand strong, march upon the Hornburg."

Thorin's laugh died in his throat, and he grasped Frerin's shoulders tighter. "Show me."

"Thorin?" called Thráin, his face worried.

"Helm's Deep," said Thorin curtly, and he turned and tossed the empty jug back to his father. "Saruman is about to crush Rohan beneath his heel. I must get back!"

"Go," said Thrór, standing and nodding firmly.

Thorin nodded back, before charging after his brother's fleet, small figure that ran straight as an arrow for the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

Óin was already there, and he was white-lipped and grim. "Heard the news then?" he said, his pale brownish-red hair falling into his eyes.

"If you mean the impending battle, then yes," Thorin said, his breath coming hard as he took his place and automatically shifted over for his brother. Frerin sat down and began to stare at the waters as though willing the stars to rise ever faster from their depths.

"What else?" Óin sighed, and he took a place as the pool began to glow like ithildin in the moonlight. "Unless you mean the siege at Erebor."

"What?" Thorin said sharply, just as the stars swamped him and choked all the air from his lungs.

He blinked awake upon the Deeping Wall. It was twenty feet high at least, and so thick that four Men could walk abreast along the top. It was solid and well-crafted, with clefts of stone between which bows could shoot. He stared out at the deepening dusk. "How many days has Gandalf been gone?" he said to the purpling sky.

"Two," said Frerin quietly. "He should be back tomorrow."

Thorin sighed, and then he turned around to face the doors of the Keep. There upon the steps strode Théoden, and by his side was a bedraggled figure, bloodied and ragged, and yet tall and straight and kingly. Thorin recognised Aragorn, and his heart leapt in his breast. "Not lost," he said to himself, and smiled tightly. "Time enough to understand you yet, reluctant King of Gondor."

"I want every Man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall!" Théoden bellowed to his Éored. "We will cover the causeway and the gate from above. No army has ever breached the Deeping Wall nor set foot inside the Hornburg!"

A _very_ Dwarvish grunt came from behind the King, and Théoden turned to see Gimli standing with his hands folded over his great battle-axe. "This is no rabble of mindless Orcs. These are _Uruk-hai_. Their armour is thick and their shields broad," he growled in his low rumbling voice, and Thorin turned to Théoden and folded his arms.

"Listen to him, Horse-Lord," Óin muttered. "Your boys are taller, but they die better than ours do."

Théoden did not appear to care for Gimli's advice. "I have fought many wars, Master Dwarf. I know how to defend my own keep," he said stiffly.

"But this keep is _Erkenbrand's,"_ Thorin sighed, and Frerin put his hand on Thorin's arm and tugged lightly.

"Come on," he whispered.

Aragorn patted Gimli's shoulder as he and the King passed the Dwarf. Gimli shrugged helplessly, but his mouth still curved into a smile at the sight of his restored friend. "Well, you tried," Aragorn murmured.

"Mayhaps you will have better luck," Gimli said. "Mayhaps a Man's advice is trustier than a Dwarf's."

"Bite your tongue!" Óin snapped, and Thorin immediately surged forward.

"Thùragâl!" he snarled, and Gimli's eyes flickered.

"Birashagimi, melhekhel," he said as softly as he was able, and Óin let his head fall backwards as he groaned.

"Khuzdul. Again," he said, and then proceeded to try to knock his head against the stones.

"Gimli?" whispered Legolas, and Gimli lifted one hand in a warning gesture as the King moved on, still talking loudly of how they could rebuild and resow after the destruction wreaked by Isengard.

"We will outlast them," Théoden finished, his face set and his eyes determined.

"They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages," exclaimed Aragorn finally. "They come to destroy its people - down to the last child!"

Théoden rounded upon him and his expression suddenly dropped from determination to hopeless fury. "What would you have me do?" he hissed. "Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance."

"Send out riders, my Lord," Aragorn said. "Call for aid."

"And who will come?" Théoden said bitterly. "Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."

Aragorn looked torn for a moment, and then he blurted, "Gondor will answer."

"Gondor!" Théoden exploded, and then he jerked closer to Aragorn, his cheeks mottling red with anger. "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us?! Where was Gon-" He broke off, breathing hard, before calming himself with a great effort. "No, my Lord Aragorn," he said, cold and bleak, "we are alone."

Aragorn seemed to sag as the King moved away, still shouting orders. Gimli and Legolas came to stand beside him, and Legolas tentatively nudged him with one elbow. "Aragorn?"

"Ah, nin ú-chenia, Legolas," Aragorn sighed. "Tôl auth."

Legolas' fair face barely moved, but his Elven eyes glittered in the sunset. "How long?"

"They will be here sometime in the night," Aragorn said, and then he turned towards the keep once more. Only then did Thorin notice that he was limping slightly.

"You are no use to us half-alive," Legolas said sharply. "You should rest."

"Later," Aragorn said, and he moved away. "Now, we prepare for war."

Gimli watched him go, and he shook his head. "Wait for him, lad," he said, and wrinkled his forehead. "He's got a lot on his mind right now."

Legolas gave him a swift look. "Gondor?"

Gimli nodded. "Aye."

Thorin felt his brows draw together, and at his side, Frerin breathed out in sudden understanding. "What does he mean?" he muttered in his brother's ear.

"For all that Aragorn has spent his life beyond Gondor's borders, he is still part of that people at his heart," Gimli said, and he leaned against the breastwork of the wall. "He must feel betrayed by his own, knowing that Gondor cannot come to Rohan's aid as of old."

"Ah," Thorin said, and then felt his back straighten in remembered fury. "I know it well."

Frerin cocked his head, an exasperated look upon his face. "Nadad," he said with feeling, "I mean this with all respect and love, but shut up, please."

Thorin blinked, and then turned to give the sniggering Óin a long, cool stare. When Gimli began to speak again, he held his tongue. (He _did,_ however, give the back of Frerin's head a light slap.)

"This is more to my liking," Gimli was saying, and he stamped on the stones beneath his feet with a clash of heavy hobnails. "Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin, and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water."

Legolas leaned against the parapet as well, his eyes searching out into the gloom. "I do not doubt it," he said reflectively. "But you are a Dwarf, and Dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I shall like it no more by the light of day. But you comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe."

Óin pulled a rather extraordinary face. "Ears must be playin' up again," he said to himself.

Thorin did not quite trust himself to say a word.

"I would there were more of your kin among us," Legolas continued, and he straightened, his eyes far away. "But even more would I give for a hundred archers of Mirkwood."

"Never before has an Elf wished for more Dwarves by his side," Gimli said, smiling. "Still, it is dark for archery. Indeed, it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any Dwarf could. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!"

A commotion in front of the doors of the Keep flickered in the corner of Thorin's eye, and he turned to see Éowyn bowing her head before the King, her face alive with resentment.

"Éowyn, sister-daughter," Théoden murmured. "I do not do this to punish you."

"Then why am I always the one to bear it?" she said, her voice coming hard and bitter from between tight lips. "Why do you send me away as though a Shieldmaid of your line is no more fit for war than a nursemaid?"

"No!" Théoden said, and he cupped her head in his hands. "No. Éowyn, I need you to stand in my stead, do you understand? The people will follow the house of Eorl. They will look to you to protect them and keep them safe."

"There are others," she said, looking up with defiance in her eyes.

"Indeed, but none of our house," he said gently, and she closed her eyes against her angry tears. "Éowyn. Do this for me."

"I have always done my duty by you, my King," she said, her eyes still closed and the words cold and numb.

"Yes," he said, and ran his thumb under her eye, collecting the wetness that seeped there. "You have. And my beloved girl, I would give you all you desire if there were any other way, but there is not."

"Say rather, 'you _will_ not', and spare me such speeches," she said, opening her eyes and fixing him with them. "You would not send Éomer from your side."

Théoden let out a frustrated breath. "I cannot say what I would do, for Éomer is not here. You are. Éowyn, you are all I have left."

She froze, and then she bowed her head stiffly. To Thorin she seemed like a woman made of ice, so strong and yet so brittle, glowing in the light of the new-risen moon. "As my King commands," she said dully.

"No," Théoden said, and cupped her face once more. "I do not command. Rather, I ask, as your uncle who loves you and needs you: Éowyn. Take care of them."

She looked up, stricken, and then she nodded once and turned away in a whirl of skirts towards the keep.

"Oh, _nârinh_ ," Frerin said, nearly boneless with adoration.

"Where does she go?" Thorin wondered.

"There are tunnels behind the Keep," Gimli said unexpectedly, and Óin cursed and span to stare again at his nephew. "The people of the Westfold and the folk of Edoras have taken refuge there."

"Tunnels, eh?" Óin said, and he squinted up at the forbidding cliffs of the White Mountains that held them in their rocky arms. "Well, now."

"Not now," Thorin told him.

Théoden watched after his niece for a moment, his face full of regret and resolve. Then he barked, "Gamling. Attend me!" and stalked towards the upper levels. "I must prepare for battle."

"Where has Aragorn put himself now," Gimli grumbled. "Harder to hold onto than smoke, that Man!"

"He will have made his way to the Armoury," said Legolas, glancing over the Men who lined up outside the barracks, taking spears and bows from the great piles outside the doors. "Come, mellon nin. Perhaps we will find that shield the King spoke of."

"Perhaps," Gimli said, and he pushed himself away from the wall and moved after the Elf with his heavy, tireless tread.

Yet it seemed that the Man was in a fell mood when they arrived. He quarrelled with Legolas in the birdlike Elven tongue, and Gimli's face grew darker and darker with irritation.

Legolas whirled upon the Man finally and shouted, "Natha daged dhaer!"

Aragorn surged forward and retorted, "then I shall die as one of them!"

The sudden intake of breath from every single Dwarrow, dead and living, seemed disproportionately loud in the sudden silence.

Aragorn whirled and stalked away, and Legolas, his eyes flickering with confusion and anger, made to follow him.

"No," Gimli said, taking the Elf's arm and holding firm. Legolas had as much chance of moving that iron Dwarven grip as he had of moving the mountain. "Let him go, lad. Let him be."

Legolas gazed after Aragorn for a moment, and then finally seemed to notice the still and staring Rohirrim that surrounded them. He said a soft word in his own tongue that Thorin thought must be a curse of some description (though it sounded far too pretty to mean anything suitably foul) and sat down beside the Dwarf. His Elvish elegance seemed to have deserted him somewhat in his anger, and his long limbs seemed coltish, even jerky.

The Rohirrim began to talk quietly amongst themselves finally, and Gimli took out his pipe and began to pack it. "Now, Legolas," he said in an undertone, "want to tell me what all that was about?"

Legolas tensed, and then he slumped all at once, becoming as boneless as a cat in the sunlight. "Can you not guess?" he said.

"Aye, I think I have an inkling," said Gimli, striking his father's tinder-box and lighting his pipe. "Still, I would hear you say it. To assume would be an injustice."

"Then if you know, there is no need for me to say it," Legolas said.

"Legolas," said Gimli gently but firmly, and his hand reached out to circle Legolas' arm once more.

Legolas looked up at the Dwarf from under his lashes. "I..." he began, and then he closed his mouth with a _snap_!

"Well, if you cannot put it into words, I shall try," Gimli said, leaning back and puffing at his pipe. "You see all these mortals around us, do you not? And you wonder, _how soon shall they be taken, will they whisk away like the autumn leaf in the wind, so swift and so silent?_ And then you grow angry and despondent, for your two friends here are both mortal, both possessed of that weakness, and you cannot halt the march of our allotted span any more than you can stop the setting of the sun. So you lash out at Aragorn, who has seemingly returned to us via a miracle named Brego. Do I hit near the mark?"

If eyes could kill, Gimli would have been a stain on the floor.

"Ah, I see that I do," Gimli said, and chuckled to himself. "Legolas, we do not intend to be careless with our lives. Besides, in battle, you are in as much danger as I. Elves may be immune to time, but not to steel. That enemy belongs to all."

Legolas' face was once more possessed of that strange mix of sadness and confusion, and he sounded older and far more Elvish as he said, "I know, mellon nin, I know. But it gives my heart no comfort."

"Then take comfort in this," Gimli said, and he squeezed Legolas' arm. "Take comfort in me, as you said upon the Deeping Wall. I am here. I am alive. So are you. So is Aragorn. So are these Men around us. So is the stone beneath our feet and the grass upon the mountain-side. Tomorrow – who knows? But now – here – we are alive, ugbal bâhûn."

"Aye," said Legolas, and Thorin blinked to hear such a Dwarvish answer fall from Elven lips. Legolas turned to face the Dwarf fully, and he let his eyes rest upon the low, broad shape of Gimli in the shadows. A light seemed to kindle in their blue depths. "As you say, you are here, and you comfort me."

"Good!" said Gimli, and tapped out his pipe and tucked it away as he stood. "Then we should find Aragorn now. He will not have gone far, and battle is too near for tempers to sour our fellowship."

"Fellowship," Legolas echoed, and he followed Gimli obediently through the tunnels, trusting to the Dwarf's stone-sense to lead the way. His eyes did not move from Gimli's short and sturdy frame.

"Why's Legolas acting so..." Frerin said suspiciously.

"He is tense before the battle," said Thorin after a moment's thought. "They all are. Do you not recall?"

"I don't remember staring at another Dwarrow until my eyes wore a path in their back," Frerin muttered, and Óin choked.

" _What_ did you just say?"

"I said-"

"No, no, I heard ye, I just wanted to..." Óin scrubbed at his hair, and then glanced between the silent slender shape of Legolas, the broad and muscular Dwarf – and then, oddly, his eyes came to rest on Thorin. With an inarticulate sound, he shook his head rapidly.

"No," he said emphatically, waggling one finger at random. "No, it ain't the case an' I won't be havin' it. _No,_ d'you hear me?"

"Óin, what in Mahal's name," Thorin began, but Óin gave a strangled scream under his breath and fisted his hands in his hair.

" _No,_ I say!" he squawked, and then the stars limned him in shimmering light, and he disappeared.

"What a peculiar reaction," Frerin said bemusedly. "Has Óin been hitting the ale again, do you suppose?"

"No, not that I know of," Thorin said, equally puzzled.

Gimli finally cornered Aragorn in a small antechamber off the main armoury, arming himself with fervid determination. Legolas handed him his sword before he could reach for it.

Aragorn paused, wary. Legolas was blunt and straightforward as he said, "We have trusted you this far. You have not led us astray. Forgive me. I was wrong to despair."

"Ú-moe edaved, Legolas," Aragorn answered in the Elvish language, and the pair clasped each others' shoulder in reconciliation.

"Di ndegithanc ne ndagor," Legolas said, the liquid syllables flowing from his tongue. "I beng nîn linnatha a magol dhîn."

"Ahem," said Gimli pointedly.

Aragorn laughed his seldom-heard, rusty laugh. "Apologies, Gimli. We will-"

At that moment, a strange, clear horn rang out over the valley.

"That is no Orc-horn," said Legolas, whirling, an impossible hope rising in his face, before he ran from the room, swift as a swallow.

"Ach, with the running again," Thorin growled as Gimli tore after him with a pounding of boots, followed by Aragorn. The stairs wound from the armoury up to the spur of rock that served for the causeway, and there, marching in perfect unison, came a shimmering array of a fighting force out of legend.

"Elves," Frerin said, awed at the sight of so many tall, unearthly warriors.

"They will spring to the defence of Men, but not of Dwarves," Thorin snarled, the old outrage prickling as fiercely as ever. Gimli frowned.

"These are not Elves of Mirkwood," he said as quietly as he could. "Do you not see?"

Resplendent in shining golden armour, a familiar tall figure stood at the head of the column. "I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell," said the Elf, stepping forward with a graceful gesture of respect. When he straightened, Thorin recognised with a jolt the proud face and form of Haldir, Marchwarden of Lórien, he who had been so callous towards his star.

"Lothlórien Elves," he said, and Frerin gaped up at them all.

"They're so _shiny,"_ he said.

"They may yet have a blindfold or two up their pretty sleeves, so do not be so impressed, nadadith," said Thorin.

Gimli rolled his eyes. "He brings word from the _Lady,"_ he said, stressing the last word pointedly. Thorin subsided reluctantly, glaring at Haldir and grumbling.

"An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and died together." Haldir glanced up to see the Three Hunters barrelling down the steps towards him, and his mouth curved in the faint smile of Elvenkind. "We come to honour that allegiance."

Aragorn did not pause at the foot of the steps, but grasped the tall and elegant Elf and dragged him into a clumsy, grateful hug. "You are _most_ welcome," he said fervently.

Haldir awkwardly patted Aragorn's back, seemingly at a loss for what to do.

* * *

It was nearing midnight, and a sea of glittering steel seethed before the Deeping Wall.

Thorin looked out over the creeping carpet of Uruk-Hai, his heartbeat thundering in his ears and rattling his chest. "Orcrist," he muttered to himself, and then looked up at the billowing clouds above.

"I never wished to see another battle," Frerin said by his side, and Thorin reached out and took his brother's hand, engulfing it in his own. "And I have seen so many now," Frerin continued, staring out at the unthinkably huge army before them. "So many."

Thorin squeezed Frerin's hand, and murmured, "strength, my brother. The night will pass, and Gandalf will come."

"One Wizard against ten thousand Uruks," Frerin sighed, and did not look away.

Before them, Aragorn stood, flanked by his companions. "Here they come," he said.

"You could have picked a better spot," Gimli muttered, and then glanced up at Legolas. "Not. A word."

"I wouldn't dare," said the Elf solemnly. Then he swept the valley of the Hornburg with his eerie gaze.

"Well, lad, by the luck you live by, let's hope it lasts the night," Gimli said, and he fingered his axe impatiently.

"Your friends are with you, Aragorn," said Legolas.

"Let's hope _they_ last the night," Gimli murmured, and got a knee in the back from Legolas in response. He grinned up at the Elf, pushing back his helm in his normal fashion. Legolas smiled back tightly, before his smile faded and he simply looked at Gimli as though he held the long-sought answer to an unutterable question.

Thunder rolled through the mountains, and Thorin could hear the first droplets strike armour as the skies opened at last. The rain was light at first, but soon grew fast and heavy, a silver sheet that stopped all sight. Aragorn held up his hand and called something in Elvish, and the Lothlórien archers all drew their bows in eerie unison.

The combatants faced each other, waiting for the mistake to be made.

When it came, it was sudden and jarring. An old archer of Rohan, struggling with the pull of his bow, accidently loosed his arrow before the others. The arrow pierced an Uruk in the join between breastplate and helmet, and the creature groaned like a dying bull and fell forward onto his face, dead.

"Well, that's torn it," Frerin sighed as the army of Isengard erupted into roars and snarls and horrible slobbering curses in their foul tongue.

Legolas bent the great bow of Galadriel, his eyes fixed upon the advancing tide of Orcs that stampeded towards the Deeping Wall. A shower of arrows was loosed from the Elves, followed by a less effective shower from the Rohirrim. The noise of the Uruk-Hai and the thunder was tremendous, and Thorin had to press his hands over his ears.

Ladders were brought to bear against the wall, and Gimli span his axe in readiness as they towered ponderously into the air. Some of the Uruks, too impatient to wait, clambered up the ladders even as they were raised. "Good!" Gimli growled, and he leapt to the front of the fray, his axe glinting. "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" he roared, and two orcs fell headless. The rest fled from the dreadful sight of the great Dwarf illuminated in the lightning.

He retook his place on the wall beside the Elf. "Two!" he said, patting his axe.

"Two?" said Legolas. "I have done better, though now I must grope for spent arrows: all mine are gone. Yet I make my tale twenty at the least. But that is only a few leaves in the forest."

Gimli squinted up at him, the rain spattering his face. "Well now," he said, and rubbed his huge hands. "I'll have no point-ear outscoring me. What will you wager?"

"Nothing, for your life," Legolas said seriously, and paused to look down at Gimli. "I would not wager with it for all the jewels that have ever been or ever will."

Gimli's eyebrows shot up. "All right then, for the sake of winning," he said, and shrugged, before whirling away to bury his axe into the skull of an Orc, and another. "Three, four," he counted breathlessly.

He had reached nineteen when a shout came from below. "Master Dwarf, Master Dwarf!" came a voice, and Gimli and Thorin turned in unison to see Gamling in the Deep beyond the wall. He was waving his arms as he shouted. "Master Dwarf, your aid?"

" _My_ aid?" Gimli said, astonished, and he turned to Legolas with confusion writ all over him.

"Dwarves are said to be cunning folk with stone," Gamling called, and he gestured to where a small culvert yawned at the base of the Deeping Wall, where a thin dark stream trickled from the snows of the White Mountains. "The Uruks creep between the grate and enter the Deep. The Orcs are behind the wall!"

"Behind the wall!" Gimli cried, and he bunched his legs and leapt down. "Ai-oi, the Orcs are behind the wall and there are enough for the both of us. Come Legolas! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

Legolas had gasped aloud as Gimli made his jump. He had evidently forgotten how sturdily a Dwarf was made. He pressed a hand to his chest in relief, and then an Orc was upon him. His white knives flashed in the sullen moonlight. "Twenty-two!" he said, and span, slitting the Orc's throat in a gesture so elegant it might have been part of an elaborate dance.

Below, Gamling gestured to the culvert. "We must stop this rat-hole," he said, anger colouring his face and tone. "Do you have any secrets for us, Master Dwarf?"

"Am I glad that Óin has gone," Frerin said fervently.

"We do not shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our fingernails," said Gimli. "But I will help as I may."

Under Gimli's direction, the Westfold men gathered boulders and broken stones and blocked up the inner end of the culvert, all the while fighting off the pikes and spiked swords of the Uruk-Hai. The wall thus made was no permanent structure, but it foiled the Uruks' attempts to creep into the Deep. The rain-swollen Deeping-stream became choked as a result, and began to spread in pools behind the wall. "Come!" said Gimli, hefting the last boulder as though it were made of down, "it will be drier above!" And he pushed the boulder directly into the face of the Uruk who was trying vainly to squeeze over the new makeshift barricade. A yelp sounded from the other side.

"Not by very much," Gamling grunted, and he gave the pouring sky a dark look.

Gimli clambered back up to the top of the wall, and he gave Legolas a triumphant look. "Twenty-one!" he said.

"Good!" said Legolas gaily, flushed with the heat of battle and somehow more wild and more alien than Thorin had ever imagined him. "But my count is now two dozen. It has been knife-work up here."

Théoden, standing before the keep, laughed with scorn. "Is this it? Is this all you can conjure, Saruman?" he said derisively, as the Uruks charged at the stronghold and died.

Aragorn was fighting not far away, his sword faster than a striking serpent as he cut through the hordes of Orcs that made their way to the wall. Once more Thorin was struck by the odd mix of styles he used: a sweeping Elvish block here, a flickering Gondorian parry there. Suddenly his sword dipped as Aragorn spotted something out in the valley.

"Legolas!" he shouted, his voice faint over the roar of Uruk-voices and the rumble of thunder. "Togo hon dad, Legolas!"

Thorin span, and by his side Frerin began to tremble. "What _is_ that?" he gasped, clutching at Thorin's sleeve.

"Some foul sorcery of Saruman's," Thorin said, staring at the thing clutched in the Orc's hand that fizzed and sparked like trapped dragonfire, blue-white like the strike of lightning and buzzing like a hornet's nest.

Legolas bent the bow of Galadriel, aiming at the charging Orc. It was plunging directly for the culvert that Gimli had plugged earlier, snorting like an angry boar as it went. The bow sang: the arrow flew. The Orc was rocked back as it sunk halfway into his shoulder, but he did not slow.

"Dago hon!" Aragorn hollered. "Dago hon!"

Legolas bent his bow again, and once more it sang its deadly song. The next arrow blossomed from the Uruk's other shoulder, and it reeled slightly to one side before staggering forward.

"No!" Aragorn howled, and then there was a crash and a flash of flame and smoke. Boulders that had been laid in the great days of Gondor were blown dozens of feet into the air. The waters of the Deeping Stream hissed and foamed as they poured out: they were no longer choked. A gaping hole had been blasted in the ancient, thick, seemingly-impregnable Deeping Wall.

"Devilry of Saruman!" Aragorn cried, and he leapt forward with his sword in his fist. "They have lit the fire of Orthanc beneath our feet! _Elendil! Elendil!"_ he shouted as he leapt down into the breach. A host of dark shapes poured in to meet him, slavering and growling.

"Fall back!" Gamling roared. "Fall back!"

A broad stairway climbed from the Deep up to the Rock where the rear-gate of the Hornburg stood, a way to flee the oncoming floods and retreat to the Citadel. Near the bottom of these stairs stood Aragorn: though many of the Rohirrim had been driven back, he stood firm. Behind on the upper steps knelt Legolas, his bow once more bent, though the arrow nocked against the string was black and barbed cruelly. He had gleaned it from the battlefield after speeding down the stairs on a shield – a feat Thorin had to gape and shake his head at.

"That," Frerin announced dumbly, "was brilliant."

"All who can have now got safe within, Aragorn," Legolas called, covering his friend's back. "Come up!"

Aragorn turned and sped up the stair, and Uruks followed hot upon his heels, their long arms outstretched and their harsh voices snarling in their hideous language. Aragorn outpaced them, ducking another storm of arrows from the Lothlórien archers, and then gained the door. He and Legolas pushed it closed against the oncoming surge of Orcs, and then Aragorn slumped against the wood.

"Things go ill," he panted, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Ill enough," Legolas said, and glanced back at the heavy door with its steel bars, "but not yet hopeless. Where is Gimli?"

Aragorn blinked the sweat from his eyes, and then looked alarmed as he turned back to stare at the closed door as well. "I do not know. I last saw him fighting on the ground behind the wall, but the enemy swept us apart."

Legolas paled so swiftly and dramatically that Thorin half-feared he would faint. "In the Deep?" he faltered weakly. "That is evil news."

"He is stout and strong," said Aragorn, stepping forward quickly and grasping Legolas' shoulders tightly. "Let us hope he will escape back to the caves. There he would be safe for a while. Such a refuge would be to the liking of a Dwarf."

Legolas' breath was coming fast as he said in a whisper, "that must be my hope."

"Legolas," Aragorn said helplessly, but the Elf shook his head sharply and his face was so twisted and ravaged that Thorin could barely believe it belonged to one of the Firstborn.

Aragorn shook the slender shoulders firmly. "Legolas, he will be well," he swore.

"I desired..." Legolas said, and he raised his head to meet the eyes of the Man, something fierce and defiant and desperate in his gaze. "I desired to tell him that my tale is now thirty-one."

"If he wins back to the caves, he will pass your count again," Aragorn said encouragingly. "Never did I see an axe so wielded."

Legolas nodded silently, and then he said, "I must seek more arrows."

Aragorn gave him a dubious look, but let go of his shoulders and began to make his way through the tunnels of the Hornburg.

Legolas stood where he was for a moment, and then he drew himself up tall. His face was still white as milk, but two bright spots of colour glowed in his cheeks and he looked nearly maddened with grief. "Hear me, Thorin Oakenshield, if you be near," he said in a voice that cracked and shook, "find him. Leave this place and find him! I will do you any service, perform for you any penance, if you can only tell me that he is alive and well! If that cannot sway you, then for the love we both bear him, find him. Protect him. I cannot lose him!"

Thorin drew in a short, quick breath that hurt his lungs it was so abrupt. "I will try," he said to his old enemy's son, and before he could question himself he was hurtling through the door and down the stairs towards the Deep. It teemed and surged with Orcs: a foul, bubbling stew.

"Thorin, what are you _doing_?" Frerin howled from behind him.

"I will find my star," grated Thorin, the fires of battle stoking his blood as they had not for eighty years. "I will find Gimli."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> _TBC..._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Mellon nin – my friend.  
> Nin ú-chenia – he doesn't understand me  
> Tôl auth – war is coming  
> Ú-moe edaved, Legolas – There is nothing to forgive, Legolas  
> Di ndegithanc ne ndagor – we will slay them in battle  
> I beng nîn linnatha a magol dhîn – my bow will sing with your sword  
> Togo hon dad – bring him down  
> Dago hon! – Kill him!
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Nârinh – Champion-lady  
> Thùragâl – the Darer (You dare!)  
> Umùhud-zaharâl – Builder of glory  
> Lavamabbad- The White Mountains  
> Mahumb – Droppings (feces)  
> Ulganul - godlike  
> Ezùleg - colony  
> Ugbal bâhûn – greatest friend.  
> Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu – May Mahal's hammer shield you  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Ghivasha - treasure  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Birashagimi – I'm sorry (literally, "I regret")  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Undayûy- (the) greatest boys  
> Akhûnîth – young man  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight
> 
> Erkenbrand was the Lord of the Westfold, and the noble in charge of the fastness of Helm's Deep.
> 
> DAFFODIL - Respect, Regard, Unrequited Love, You're the Only One, The Sun is Always Shining when I'm with You.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the chapters, "Helm's Deep" and "The Passage of the Marshes" as well as from the films.
> 
> _Thank you so very, very much for your reviews and kudos and support! It means the world to me, I just can't tell you how much - especially when RL things are so stressful and confusing and full of very impenetrable paperwork. *hugs you all*_


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey all, sorry sorry sorry for long absence! I was away in Melbourne, seeing a LOT of opera (The Ring Cycle, to be exact - and wow is that a treat for a Tolkien fan, as Tolkien mined a lot of the same Nordic/Teutonic myths for his stories! Very cool and very epic). I also have super-big news - I am expecting a mini-Dets in the middle of next year. Between all this and work and moving house it has all been a bit mad and hectic, and something had to be postponed while I got everything under control. Unfortunately that something was writing. But I hope to have another chapter up before I leave (again! SORRY) on the 23rd to see my family! I will be back NYE. Thank you for all your amazing patience._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> **Art and Artiness**  
>  _The amazing[flukeoffate](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com) has done [COVER ART!!!!](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/68908282113/sansukh-by-yorikosakakibara-sooo-i-posts-this-a) *dies happy* Also, she has drawn [Genna](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/68086256648/genna-bofur-and-bomburs-mother-as-imagined-by) and [Bomfur](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/67442968101/bomfur-determamfidds-oc-of-bombur-and-bofurs), the parents of Bofur and Bombur AND THEY ARE PERFECTION ITSELF. Go. Now. Looky._
> 
> _HOLY CRAP. The super-talented[notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) has posted the [Songs of Sansûkh](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/songs-of-sansukh), because she is magical and there is nothing - NOTHING - she cannot do. These are spellbinding and I simply cannot stop listening to them! Eventually they will be incorporated into [fuckthisimgoingtoerebor](http://fuckthisimgoingtoerebor.tumblr.com)'s amazing podfics. Affffghjljhflkh._
> 
>  _The astonishing_[miliabyntite](http://miliabyntite.tumblr.com/) has made the most incredibly creative suit of cards-style illustration of[ Chapter Three: young!Gimli and Dis](http://miliabyntite.tumblr.com/post/69570205012/is-this-pity-dis-stood-and-her-hair-tumbled). And it is awesome. (Also, donate if you can! Sid is fantastic and you will receive amazeriffic art!)
> 
> _And if you would like to see the whole, amazing, massive list of fanworks that Sansûkh has generated (still gobsmacked and humbled beyond words, you guys): **[Sansûkh - The Masterpost](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost)**_
> 
> _This chapter isn't as long as the monster-chapter that was Twenty-Five, but it's still pretty gigantic. I hope you enjoy!_
> 
> * * *

Thorin charged down through the boiling seething mass of Uruk-Hai, his eyes darting this way and that. He had last seen Gimli standing ankle-deep in the mud left from the blocked Deeping-stream, his axes glinting in the rain, edged by the sudden flash of lightning.

"Gimli!" he roared, and only the roar of the orcs answered him. "Gimli, my star! Gimli Glóin's son, to me! To me, my kinsman!"

The sudden gleam of green and gold made him whirl and turn, and he saw Haldir pressed back by many Uruks, his proud face pinched and desperate. His sword moved in elegant sweeps as he fairly danced amongst the oncoming hordes, blond hair sweeping in a graceful semicircle behind him as he span.

"Thorin!" Frerin's voice called, high and panicked. "Thorin, please!"

"Here!" he shouted, and darted back through the press of orc-bodies and struggling Elven warriors to see his little brother flattened against the stairs, his shoulders heaving and his face bloodless.

"I can't..." he blurted the minute his eyes fixed upon Thorin, and his lips were nearly blue. "I can't do it."

Thorin cursed and caught Frerin up in his arms, holding him tightly and allowing the little hands to clutch at his shoulders. Frerin's face buried itself in the crook of his neck, and Thorin could feel him trembling violently: great, uncontrolled spasms. "I did not think," he said, and threaded one of his hands underneath Frerin's golden hair to settle, reassuring and steady, upon the back of his neck. "I am sorry, nadadith – I did not think. Are you all right?"

[ ](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/73688327402/ok-miserable-thorin-is-in-this-year-this)

  
__

Thorin and Frerin, by [Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/73688327402/ok-miserable-thorin-is-in-this-year-this)  


Frerin nodded, but the spasms did not subside. Thorin swore again.

"Do not look up," he said tersely. "Keep your face buried in my hair. I have you, brother. You are safe."

"It was the sound," Frerin mumbled, and then his whole back shuddered so fiercely that he nearly shook Thorin off. "The sound: I can't hear that sound anymore, I just can't. I dream about it, sometimes."

"Shh. Listen to me, to my voice, to my breath," Thorin said, and he stood carefully, letting Frerin burrow tightly against him, wrapping his arms protectively around the fine, golden head. His brother was so light, so small. Barely an adolescent. It was obscene that they had ever sent such a young Dwarrow into a battle in the first place. They had been desperate. They had been proud. They had been such _fools._

Thorin looked around the battleground, but there was still no sight of Gimli. Elves lay scattered like crushed leaves underneath the ugly, hook-pointed weapons of Isengard. The battle-shouts of the Uruk-Hai rang out into the night, and he whirled awkwardly, his hand cupping Frerin's head as he did so.

"Stay with me," he murmured, and began to move purposefully back through the sea of Orcs. "Do not open your eyes. Listen to my voice, nadad. My voice alone, Abkundûrzud. Hold tight, now. Move with me, step as I do."

Frerin clutched at him even more tightly, but his shudders began to subside at the sound of his Dark-name.

The great sheer cliffs of the Hornburg rose before them, and Thorin stared about, trying to see through the reeking smoke and the shifting mass of tall bodies that blocked his view. "Caves," He muttered to himself, and urged Frerin to take another step forward. The sticky-sweet smell of blood and the shrieks were beginning to affect him as well. Where were these caves Aragorn had spoken of? He let his eyes rove over the cliffs with increasing desperation, trying to spot the shifts in grain and formation that only a Dwarf would recognise.

"Thorin, look," Frerin said, his voice small and hoarse, but there. Thorin followed Frerin's shaking finger to where the roots of the White Mountains sprang from the earth. There, nestled at the foot of the valley, strangely small amidst the godlike pressures that had forced these mountains from their place in the ground, were the unmistakeable rounded shapes of granite that has been weathered by time and water.

"There is no river here," he breathed, and then he dragged Frerin as quickly as he dared towards the grey rounded boulders. "No river, only a stream. Any river has been blocked – or is _underground..._ "

Frerin scurried beside him, his face grim and pale and his eyes averted from the slaughter around them. "Let's get out of this," he said, and began to pick up the pace.

"Frerin, wait for..." Thorin began to say, but he was interrupted by a strange mournful cry. He whirled, and then saw the tall elegant figure of Haldir standing upon the broken Deeping Wall, his sword still at his side and his frame strangely motionless. As he watched, the Elf span, his dark blue eyes filled with horror and disbelief, and then he slumped to the ground. He did not move again.

Thorin stared and stared.

"Thorin!" called Frerin. "Thorin, there's an opening! It's too small for an Uruk, but Gimli could have made it – Thorin, please, let's get out of here!"

"I have never seen an Elf die," said Thorin dumbly, watching Haldir's hair spill over his leaf-embossed armour like golden blood. "I did not think to... they die so _easily._ They may live forever, but they may be snuffed out by a blow that could not have felled a Dwarf."

"Thorin!" Frerin howled. " _Please!"_

"Gimli will be saddened," Thorin said to himself, ignoring the press of Uruk-Hai that stormed through his insubstantial body towards the keep. "He will see how Legolas grieves."

Then he shook the strange mood from himself and turned, charging over to where Frerin waved frantically. His brother ducked inside the cave-opening just as Thorin made it, sliding in amongst the stones and the dark. "What were you _doing?"_ snapped Frerin, his voice high and tight.

"Haldir is fallen," Thorin said curtly, and then he pushed forward into the darkness. Thanks to the full night outside, it took very little time for his eyes to adjust. The small tunnel was indeed too narrow and low for any Man or Orc or Elf to make passage, but a Dwarf or Hobbit (or Goblin, for that matter) could manage it fairly easily. "It leads down and towards the south."

"Good," said Frerin, scowling fiercely now that the worst of his fright had left him. He still sounded shaken, and Thorin reached out and grasped his small, light shoulder in order to ground him.

"Do the memories hold you firm in their grasp yet?" he said, and Frerin stiffened.

"I..." he said, and then he dropped his head. Thorin stepped closer and pulled Frerin against his side.

"You are not the only one who suffers thusly," he said bluntly. "I have simply had more time in which to learn how to hide it. I daresay our father, Fundin, Balin and the others have their own nightmares to deal with. Do not be ashamed, Frerin."

Frerin's breath caught, and then he looked up at Thorin with very wide eyes. "That is so strange," he said in a half-whisper. "I feel as though we've swapped roles. Aren't I supposed to say things like that to you?"

Thorin shook Frerin's shoulders once, and then began to move into the lightless tunnel. "Cheek."

He could hear Frerin's intake of breath, and then the small shoulders suddenly drained of tension in one swoop. "I wonder where this leads."

"Éowyn had to take the people to the caves," Thorin remembered.

"Aye, but that entrance was through the keep," argued Frerin, "and only the smaller children could have possibly made it through that narrow crack."

"Hmm. Stay close," Thorin said, and began to pick his way over uneven stone that was covered in debris and slimy moss. The Deeping Stream must once have run through this place, or rain trickled down through the strata to create the close, musty dampness.

"I wonder how Gimli did with his boots on this stuff," Frerin muttered, inadvertently echoing Thorin's thoughts.

"No doubt he managed," he said, and ignored the tiny voice at the back of his mind that whispered, _what if he never made it here? What if he is buried in the mud outside, and you could not see him amongst Saruman's foul horde?_

"I can hear a voice ahead!" said Frerin suddenly, grasping at Thorin's sleeve. He turned his hand to take Frerin's firmly, and led him onwards.

"Khuzd?" he murmured.

"I can't tell," sighed Frerin after a moment. "Keep going ahead, I'll tell you if we move the wrong way."

The walls grew smoother, the moss disappearing. Thorin rounded a corner, and was forced to climb over a narrow fall of rock that nearly blocked the tunnel-way. He helped Frerin scramble after him, before turning. His breath caught.

"Glory to Mahal," breathed Frerin in dumbstruck awe.

Before them lay a huge and graceful chamber, carved out by nothing more than the rushing of water as though scooped out by some godlike hand. The great vaulted ceiling was held aloft by great stalagmites that had joined the floor over the many centuries, forming thick pillars like the legs of an Oliphant. Each was coloured so delicately that Thorin nearly cried to see them: a dawn-rose here, a red as fierce as rubies there, peach and blue and rust and ochre and earth mingling and comingling, and whites as translucent as the shell of a Hobbit's ear. A pool bubbled amongst the many pillars, the underground spring obviously finding purchase in this peaceful, beautiful place. Its surface shone like black glass, the water echoing like the chiming of many bells amongst the fluted marble bunting that floated, cloudlike and delicate, from the roof. From the ceiling and walls dripped the shapes of eagles' wings, spears, banners, sensuously twisted ropes of marble and limestone, massive pinnacles of unearthly palaces for no mortal king. It was more stupendous than the Erebor of the days of Thrór, all aglow as though lit from within and as lucent as the webbed skin between Thorin's thumb and forefinger. And all around, the walls and columns and even the floor of the massive chamber glittered like a handful of diamonds against black velvet.

"Ukratîn," Thorin said, his mouth dry and his face slack with awe.

"Why did we ever ignore such a place?" Frerin wondered, drifting towards one of the sparkling pillars and reaching out as though to touch it with a dreamy look on his face. "How could we have passed such beauty by for so many years, and never have known it?"

"See how the jewels give their own light," Thorin marvelled, before he spied a small figure at the end of the massive natural chamber, moving slowly but steadily south. "There!"

Frerin span, startled. He squinted after Thorin's finger, before letting out a whoop. "It's him, he's alive, Gimli's alive!"

Thorin tried to hide the sudden sagging of his knees. "Of course he is," he said, and ignored the hoarse croak of his voice. "Of course he is."

"Ah, nadad," said Frerin, suddenly close and worming his way under his arm. He grinned up at Thorin, his mouth and eyes tense but a genuine joy in his face nonetheless. "Let us get to him before you do something foolish again, like run back out into the battle."

"They cannot harm us," Thorin said automatically, but Frerin scoffed.

"There are other forms of harm, big brother," he said darkly, and urged Thorin to shift his legs, loose and weak with relief though they were.

 _Legolas will not mourn. He will have no cause to cut that pale Elven hair,_ came the unexpected thought, and he frowned. Where had that come from?

"Come _on,_ slowpoke. Mahal below, but you are heavy!" Frerin said, tugging at him. Thorin realised that he had inadvertently stopped, and he began to walk again.

"Sorry," he said under his breath.

Frerin blew out an annoyed puff of air. "You are entirely too big. Ostentatious, I call it."

Thorin smiled, and then as he neared the shape of the lone Dwarrow in the dark, he laughed. "Ostentatious, aye. I have been accused of that before," he said. "Mostly by Dwalin."

"Dwalin was a great friend to me," Frerin said piously, and then nudged Thorin's ribs. "Race you?"

"You will win," he said, and shrugged. "So, no."

"He used to call you a spoilsport too, as I recall." Frerin wrinkled his nose, and then suddenly chuckled. "Gimli has not gotten very far, it seems."

"These caves are so wondrous, it does not exactly surprise me," Thorin replied.

Gimli's helm was missing, and his face was covered in blood. The sight of it made Thorin recoil for a moment, before he steeled himself. "Gimli," he said, and the Dwarrow's broad back immediately straightened, leaving off his minute inspection of the beautiful, mysterious glittering jewels.

"My lord!" he cried joyously. "Do you see where we stand? What beauty the Rohirrim have beneath their very feet? Is it not glorious?"

"It is fair beyond measure, my star," Thorin said, and he drank in the well-known features, so animated and lively even under their coating of blood. "You must not tarry, however – your friends wait for you, and worry."

Gimli looked stricken for a moment, and then he stepped forward, gazing past Thorin in the darkness. "Legolas, is he – are he and Aragorn safe? Are they well?"

"Well enough, when I left them," Thorin said. "The Hornburg is lost, and the Uruks make for the keep. These caves are reported to meet behind the keep..."

"Ah, so that is where that echo leads," Gimli mused, looking up and to his left. "I could feel the space in the stone, but I could not tell where it would take me. This mountain is riddled with such spaces, however – you can feel the emptiness underneath your palms and in your feet as you walk. Would that the most skilled of our artists and stonewrights could see this! A vast and beautiful hall, so untouched it makes you wonder if Mahal's own feet stepped here before the marring of the world..."

"Poetic indeed," Frerin murmured, and Thorin tried to restrain the smile of gladness that simply would not stop from spreading over his face.

"Gimli, this is a place of wonderment and enchantment, but it is beset by many foes," he reminded him gently. "There will be time later, my star. Time enough to marvel and explore. Now, you are needed, azaghâl belkul. You must find the passage to the people's refuge, and thence to the keep."

"Ah, you are right," Gimli said regretfully, and he took one last look over the achingly glorious chamber with all its dark and sparkling mystery. His hand lifted, hovering over one of the glittering walls, though he knew better than to touch it and so leave behind the oils upon his skin. "Do you know the way?"

Frerin snorted loudly, and then stuffed his hand into his mouth.

Gimli frowned. "Someone found that amusing. My lord?"

"My brother," said Thorin, dry as dust. He folded his arms and gave Frerin a long look. "Well?"

"Oh! Your _brother,"_ Gimli exhaled, as though in long-anticipated understanding.

"Ah, sorry, it's just..." Frerin snickered and then tried to calm himself – unsuccessfully. "Most Dwarrows know better than to ask Thorin for directions."

Gimli's mouth twitched beneath his fine moustache.

"Up," Thorin growled. "Is that enough of a direction for you?"

"It will suffice, thank you," said Gimli as diplomatically as he could under the circumstances, and he turned and began to jog towards the rear of the chamber, the jewels glinting and sparkling all around him, their light piercingly clear amidst the darkness. "There is one of the echoes here – the stone has a fault and cannot be followed perfectly, but it sounds as though – ach, yes! Here!"

Gimli shouldered his way through the narrow opening, only to find another cluttered tunnel before him. "Up it is, then," he muttered to himself, and swiped at his blood-smeared face.

"Beautiful," Thorin said to himself as Gimli began to make his way through the close black warmth of the tunnel, gems winking at him like a constellation of stars.

"To the right and then, no, there is another way," Gimli muttered, and he turned on his heel to retrace his steps, his fist banging against the scales of his brigandine every so often, sending metallic echoes dancing before him to guide the way. He moved back through the debris-strewn tunnel for a few dozen paces, before crawling into a hole that met the tunnel at waist-height. It was slick with moisture, and Gimli's gauntleted hands had to grip the sides of the new tunnel to stop his knees from sliding in the muck.

"Definitely an underground river here at some point," Frerin grumbled.

"Moss," Gimli said thoughtfully. "This connects above, if seeds can take purchase in the dark even for the slightest time. This burrow has known light, however sporadic and faint."

"Hmm." Thorin did not know quite so much about such things as some of his Company, nor even as much as Gimli, an ex-miner from his youth. "Does it open up above?"

A mailed hand crashed against the slimy stone, echoes trickling back to them, and then Gimli grunted. "Not above," he said, his nose wrinkling. "There is another small passage ahead, twisted and narrow. It climbs upwards, and then opens out into another, larger cavern."

"Large enough to get through?" Frerin asked, pushing his hair off his face and peering into the gloom before them.

"Aye, I think so," Gimli said, and his smile was grim. "I was ever an inattentive pupil when it came to divining caves, but I did manage to pick up a bit o' this an' that."

"You're more expert than either of us," Thorin said bluntly. "Move on, my star."

"What we really need here is Bofur," Gimli muttered to himself, and then he resumed crawling through the tunnel, his armour clanking against the stones as he squeezed through the narrow spaces. His broad shoulders were of no assistance in this dank and confined place, and Thorin found himself holding his breath at times, wondering whether the Dwarrow could make it through some particularly small gap. Thankfully the moss and moisture helped ease the way, and Gimli was able to push through with some inspired wriggling.

The next passage loomed in the darkness, its surfaces glittering faintly and illuminating the velvet blackness with a wan, pale light. Gimli took it without a word, his eyes darting this way and that. He used the pointed hook of his axe now and then to crash against the walls, listening carefully to the echoes.

"What I wouldn't give for a pickaxe right now," he murmured absently, before rubbing at his neck. Thorin's own neck was beginning to ache from the cramped position they had to assume. Only Frerin seemed unaffected, though he was clearly a little out of his depth in the unfamiliar tunnels.

"I've never been through such an... untouched place before," he whispered to Thorin, sitting back on his heels and gazing about at the jewelled grandeur that encrusted even this most modest and unassuming of tunnels. "No stairs, no finished walls, no ladders or propped beams or even mine-sign. We might be the first ever to go through here."

"Very likely," Thorin grunted, stubbornly placing a hand in front of the other. "Come, the tunnel slopes upwards. Perhaps soon there will be room to stand."

"Oh, is your back giving you trouble, old man?" Frerin teased, before chuckling softly and resuming his way. "Try to keep up, nadad."

"Brat," Thorin growled, and Gimli made a strange, choked-off noise.

"Apologies," he said in a muffled tone, steadfastly looking ahead as he kept moving. "I simply... it is a surprise to me, that's all. Your brother. You speak just as I do to my sister."

Thorin fell silent, and then he felt Frerin's shoulder bump against his in the close, claustrophobic confines of the tunnel. "No matter the years that separated us, we are still brothers, aye," he said, and then nudged Frerin back. "Though it took some time for this blind fool to see it. I shall have to join you and Éomer and Éothain in your confederation of long-suffering older siblings."

Gimli's short bark of laughter was rather astonished. "Glad t' have you."

Frerin's breath caught noiselessly in his throat, and then he pushed close to Thorin, his slight weight a persistent and comforting presence by his side.

"Up here," Gimli said, and carefully stood, his hand raised above his helmless head to prevent him from cracking it upon the ceiling. "Still rather low. Getting steep!"

"Watch your feet, Gimli," Thorin cautioned absently as he stood, hauling Frerin upright as well. He had no need to watch his insubstantial head, nor worry over slippery footing, but he could at least watch for Gimli's sake.

"Aye, very treacherous," Gimli agreed, and then he began to use the hook-point of his axe to draw himself up the steadily inclining slope. They fell silent. At one point, the tunnel became so vertical that Gimli was forced to press his shoulders against one wall and walk up the other side, his axe lodged in a small crevice and his arms bulging with strain.

Finally the tunnel opened out into another graceful cavern, but this time the murmur of voices was not a lone Dwarrow exclaiming in stunned delight. Instead, a crowd of Rohirrim, their hair dishevelled and their faces smudged, were crowded around the far side of the cave.

"Aha," Gimli breathed, and he made to move forward.

"Uh, Gimli," Frerin said, biting at his lip. "You may wish to wipe off your face. You're covered in blood and muck, and those are some very small children."

Gimli blinked, and then he smiled. "Very well. I have no wish to frighten children, after all – it is orcs I would put fear into!" He bent and tore a corner of the warm woollen surcoat that the Brothers Ri had made him, so very long ago, and wiped over his face with it before binding the wound upon his head. "Better?"

Thorin restrained a grimace. "It will serve." To tell the truth, it was barely better at all, but perhaps Gimli's wild beard and blood-smeared appearance would not frighten this hard, rugged people.

As it turned out, however, Gimli was not greeted by shouts of alarm but by a short cry of surprise, shortly followed by a high-pitched call of "Mister Dwarf!"

Gimli automatically snapped to his full height, his axe spinning behind his back, just as a small body came pelting towards him, blonde hair flying, to crash directly against his chest. "Oof," Gimli managed, his free hand coming up to clasp at the slight figure that clung to him. "Now then, who's this?"

"Mister Dwarf, you are all messy!" piped the voice, and the blonde head turned up to reveal a small face, pinched with tension, but determined.

Gimli smiled at her underneath his coating of grime, and chucked her chin with his gauntleted hand. "Hullo there again, Miss Freda! I see you are not afeared o' the fighting above. Why, had you been armed I daresay you would have taken my head off, so fierce was that charge!"

She beamed at him, before tugging at his grubby surcoat. "There's water," she said, and then she swallowed hard. "We heard the big crash before. Mama was afraid, and the Lady Éowyn said a bad word. What happened?"

Gimli let her tug him along, for once looming over his companion. "That is a tale best told once, and to many," he said, his face turning grim. "And I have wasted enough time already. Water would be a kindness, little lass, but after that I must be away."

"Did the magic of the Dwarves show you how to enter the caverns?" came the echoing voice of Éowyn, cool and tinged with the slightest hint of jealousy. "Why could it not lead you hence again?"

"The magic of the Dwarves is in cunning doors and clever runes, Lady," Gimli protested, lifting his hands as Freda tugged harder at his jerkin. "Training and luck led me to these wondrous caves, nothing more."

Éowyn stepped forward in the gloom, a pitcher of water in her hands and her hair tied back in a severe knot. She was dressed simply, with no full skirts to hinder her, and her sword rested at her hip. "And the way back?" she said, handing Gimli the pitcher. He accepted it with a courteous bow of his head.

"The Deeping Wall is breached," Gimli said after a pause, and then he took a deep draught of the water as around him the women and children of Rohan cried out in shock and horror. "I was in the breach when it happened. Saruman has brewed some new, foul sorcery that can burn even stone. I escaped to the foot of the White Mountains, where I found a narrow opening that led to the caves."

"Were you followed?" Éowyn said, her tone harsh. Thorin found himself clenching his jaw even as he nodded at her in approval. This shieldmaiden knew the business of war, and asked the right questions. No wonder Théoden trusted her alone to guide the people in his absence.

Gimli tugged off his gauntlets and then splashed water over his face, causing muck to trail down his cheeks and into his beard in dark rivulets. "No," he said, looking up at her. "No Man, Elf or Uruk could have followed the path I took. A mountain goblin would be the only other creature able to navigate those dark and twisting ways, or fit through those narrow tunnels."

"I could fit," Freda said suddenly, and she looked back the way Gimli had come with wide and fearful eyes. "I could fit through there if you could, Mister Dwarf."

"Aye, that you could I wager, and your brother too, no doubt," Gimli said gently, wiping his face some more. "But Miss Freda, you would not know which way to go, would you? That is a Dwarf's business."

She lifted a lock of her hair to her mouth and chewed upon it absently, before nodding. "I suppose so," she said dubiously, though she appeared unconvinced. However, she was interrupted by her name, breathed in an urgent and rather mortified voice, and suddenly her mother and brother were there to gather her up. Her mother's face appeared confounded at the company her daughter was keeping.

"Apologies, my Lady, my Lord," she stammered, clutching Freda tightly and ducking her head awkwardly.

"S' just Mister Dwarf, Mama," Freda's voice came, muffled in her mother's hair. "He's nice."

Gimli smiled up at the woman, and Éowyn laid a calming hand on her shoulder. "Be easy, goodwife," she said, and then turned back to Gimli. "You are bleeding."

"Am I?" Gimli touched the rag bound about his forehead, and then shrugged. "It is not serious. Now, which way must I go to enter the Keep? I fear I have left my friends behind with no word of me."

Éowyn's brows rose, and she stepped back to show a clear tunnel, well-lit and spacious, leading upwards. "Tell me, how does the King fare?" she asked in a low voice as she led him towards it.

"Well, last I saw," Gimli said after a pause. "He was fighting from the upper battlements, along with his bondsmen. Dawn should be on us soon, and the light will give Men strength and take it from the creatures of Saruman. Keep the courage of your people high, my Lady. Though the Deeping Wall is lost and the Hornburg taken, all is not yet fallen to darkness."

She looked ahead, her mouth set in a grim line. "I would feel better if I could see this with my own eyes."

"Then I shall do embassy for you, Lady, if you allow it. Let my eyes be yours, and I shall tell you of all I see," Gimli said with another small bow, and Frerin shook his head.

"Every now and then I forget how smooth and subtle a tongue he has," he said with a snort.

"When he chooses to use it," Thorin said, and smiled over at the filthy Dwarf. Gimli was covered in blood and cave-muck and mud from the Deeping Stream, and yet he was strong and straight and unbent, his nobility and eloquence shining through.

Éowyn glanced down at him, and then she said stiffly, "that would be a kindness, Master Gimli."

"It would be an honour, and my friends call me Gimli," he said as she opened the storerooms to let him through into the keep. "I will return."

"None can promise that, in war," she said, and her face was bitter. "Tell me of the great deeds you do in my name. I fear that is all that may ever be allowed me."

Gimli paused at the threshold, and then turned to gaze up at her, frowning thoughtfully. "No," he said slowly. "Perhaps it is all that time spent with an Elf, but that alone? No, that I cannot see for you. A safe, slow, comfortable life would suit you ill. Great deeds will be yours, White Lady of the Rohirrim. Not at this place or time, but soon. I only fear that they may cost you more than you have to pay."

She stared down at him, and her eyes blazed. "Better any price than to stay beating my wings against the bars of my cage – a cage made of duty and care and love, but a cage nevertheless! If great deeds may be mine, Master Gimli, I would seek them when and where I could and not where others deem it fitting."

Unexpectedly, Gimli laughed. "And you think that is what we do now? Lady, you are fair and brave, and were the decision mine I would have you at my back and gladly. But no Man, Elf or Dwarf here has made the choice to fight of his own accord. No, nor the Uruks either, bred and born for this as they were, with no options in either function or loyalty! Myself, I was sent to fight for Middle-Earth, chosen by my people to represent Durin's Folk. The Elves have come out of ages-old duty and obligation. Your folk have no choice. Your _King_ has no choice. None here would ever have asked for such a fate as this."

Éowyn's eyes grew hard and cold, and she drew herself up tall. "Perhaps not," she said in a rough voice, "but I know where my not-choice would lie, were I born a son and not a daughter."

Gimli squinted up at her. "Aye, and that confuses me somewhat," he said, shrugging. "Dwarves do not keep their womenfolk away from the business of war, as it eventually ends up as everyone's business anyway. I do not understand why a fair and strong lady should be trained as a warrior and then kept from a battlefield. But I _do_ know that she is the only member of her noble family, save the King, left in this keep. And she has a duty, one she would not have chosen, but hers nonetheless."

"I have always done my duty," she said, stung and offended. "I have never shirked it!"

"Peace! That is not what I said," Gimli said, holding up his hands in a conciliatory manner. "Lady Éowyn, it is hard to be left behind. I understand: I know!"

She glared at him. "How would a Dwarf and a warrior know what it is to be left behind with the women and children?"

He tipped his head. "Because my father and uncle and cousins, my dearest friends, all marched away after my King to kill a dragon and take back our home and left me chafing with worry by my mother's hearth in Ered Luin. It is not only a shieldmaid who must suffer the long slow pain of waiting. At least you will not have to wait over a year for news, as I did."

Thorin let his eyes fall to his feet, and then muttered, "I cannot find it in me to be sorry that we left you behind, nidoyel. You were but sixty, and we have lost enough young ones over the centuries to fill an ocean with their blood. I am glad you lived on, safe, if sorrowful."

Frerin moved to stand by Thorin's side, his small fingers creeping against the back of Thorin's clenched fist.

Gimli's wild red head stooped a little, but he said nothing, only waited.

Éowyn paused, and then she bowed her head. "I am sorry, Master Dwarf," she said, and then turned away. "I take my frustration out on you, and you do not deserve my scorn nor my accusations. Please forgive me."

Gimli stepped forward, laying a huge hand upon her slim white one. "Nothing to forgive," he said gently. "And do please call me Gimli."

She turned her hand over to squeeze his once, before nodding. "Gimli," she said quietly, and then she looked up to meet his eyes. "Go. Do me this embassy, and kill as many of those choiceless creatures as you can, for my sake."

"Aye, that I will," Gimli said, and smiled up at her again. Then he shouldered his axe, and was gone into the tunnel.

It opened out into spiralling stairs that climbed through the mountain's good, solid stone, and Gimli began to pick up his pace as the sounds of fighting, of Men shouting and blades clashing, reached them. "Ùhùrud mednu," he managed as he rounded a corner before charging through the open corridor that met him.

"I see all that running has done him good," Frerin said, puffing slightly as he kept pace. "He's like a battering ram, isn't he?"

Thorin had no breath with which to answer.

With a final skid of his hobnailed boots, Gimli turned another corner to see the King standing wearily over a table. A great hole had been torn in his fine armour by a spear-point, and his helm sat before him, marked by many blades. He looked up as Gimli entered.

"Ah," he said humourlessly. "Master Dwarf. Your friends will be relieved – they thought you lost."

Théoden's voice was dull and brittle, and a savage and hopeless bitterness, so like that of his niece far below, rode in his face. Gimli nodded once to the Man, and then looked around at the bustling Hall. "Where are they?"

"Beyond," he said, nodding at the doors. "We have lost the outer Keep. They fall back now."

"The outer Keep also!" Gimli rubbed at his forehead, inadvertently starting the bleeding from his wound once more. "This is ill news!"

"And it will grow worse, I fear," Théoden said, before turning to Gamling who stood nearby. "Prepare to brace the doors! Archers to the front – cover them!"

"We've barely any archers left, my Lord!" Erkenbrand called as he fought off an Orc that snarled at him like a rabid badger.

"Spearmen then, damn you!" Théoden roared. "Anything! Let us seal the doors!"

"Not yet, surely!" Gimli protested, and then he lifted his axe, his eyes afire with determination. "There are good folk out there still defending the outer Keep – I hear the ring of their steel and the cries of their voices. I will cover the breach. Do not close and seal the doors!"

"You have no ranged weapon, you cannot hold them!" Théoden snapped back. Gimli growled in Khuzdul for a moment, before stepping up. With his bloodstained face, wild hair and his mud-ridden armour, he looked like an ancient Dwarf hero, a figure out of legend.

"I said, _I will hold the door,"_ he snarled back. "Watch and learn how an axe may be wielded in the right hands!"

Théoden let out a cry of frustration, before waving one arm roughly toward the doors. "Then may you doom us all to whatever fate awaits you. I pray you can do as you say, Master Dwarf, or Rohan is finished."

"I am no liar," Gimli growled, and then he turned and raced for the open doors where Erkenbrand, Gamling and others fought valiantly to stop the Uruk-Hai from entering the inner Keep. "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" he roared as he neared, his axe swinging behind his shoulder in preparation for a mighty blow. "Back, you foul creatures! You cannot enter here!"

He landed upon the gathered throng like a cauldron of hot oil, scattering the Uruks and creating a space that soon crowded with fallen bodies and twitching limbs. "Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five...!" Gimli chanted as his axe span and whirled as never before, keeping the oncoming press of orcs at a distance.

Frerin turned to Thorin. "I'm not even going to be shocked," he announced flatly. "That shouldn't be possible, but I can't find a single ounce of surprise left in me anymore."

Thorin chuckled and let a hand rest upon Frerin's shoulder, gazing upon his fierce, magnificent star until he thought he might burst. "Aye," was all he said, and could Glóin or Óin be any prouder of Gimli than Thorin was in this moment? "Aye."

Even the greatest heroes of antiquity could not stem the flood of orcs forever. As time passed, Thorin noticed Gimli's arcs become marginally slower, and each blow did not wound. Gimli's bare head fairly glowed in the pre-dawn light, but the shadows beneath his eyes were deep and the blood upon his face was trickling into his beard once more. A lucky thrust by an Uruk pikeman had dented his brigandine at the shoulder, and he was holding it awkwardly.

"Fall back, Master Dwarf!" shouted Gamling.

"Never!" he said through lips drawn tight in a snarl. "They will not get through!"

"The last of our people are here! Come, fall back!" Gamling urged, but Gimli shook his head.

"Thirty-nine! No, they have not! I have seen no hide nor hair of my companions. Here I shall stand, rooted to this stone, until they pass me!"

"We must close the doors," Erkenbrand managed. A savage cut had been made to his sword-arm, and he was wielding with the other somewhat awkwardly.

"No!" Gimli roared, and redoubled his flagging efforts. His axe span and span, until Thorin could not see its lines clearly in the air. And then –

"Gimli, Glóin's son, lay down your weapon!" Thorin shouted, standing forward. "They are here, they are here! You have held the door, Balakhûn. You have done it!"

Gimli froze, his axe held ready in another aborted blow. His eyes darted wildly. "Here?"

"There," Thorin said, and sure enough, two figures were busy barring the door – one dark, and one Elven-fair.

Gimli's axe slipped from his fingers, and he sank down with a sigh. "Thank Mahal."

"It is over," Théoden spat, waving off the Men who would help Aragorn and Legolas to bar the doors. "The world changes, and all that once was strong now proves unsure. How shall any tower withstand such numbers and such reckless hate? Had I known that the strength of Isengard was grown so great, maybe l should not so rashly have ridden forth to meet it, for all the arts of Gandalf. His counsel seems not now so good as it did under the morning sun."

Aragorn threw another bar across the doors, and then turned to glare at Théoden with blazing eyes. "You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it. They _still_ defend it. They have died defending it!"

Théoden shut his eyes. "It is said that the Hornburg has never fallen to assault," he said with bitter irony. "The end will not be long."

"Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?" Aragorn demanded as Legolas braced the shaking door with a shoulder. The Elf's face was dazed and lost, and he did not seem to see anything around him. "Is there no other way?"

Gamling stepped forward. "There is one passage," he said, glancing with trepidation at his King, who stood sad and glowering at the table. "It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far – the Uruk-Hai are too many."

"One!" Gimli snorted softly to himself. "Aye, one they know of, surely."

Aragorn shook his head in frustration, and barked to Gamling, "tell the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance!"

The King's eyes snapped up. "So much death," he said slowly, and then his fingers clamped around the bloody hilt of his blade. "But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap."

"Ride out with me," Aragorn said suddenly, and a strange fire was in his voice. Théoden turned to face him, a terrible and fatalistic elation building in his face. "Ride out and meet them."

"For death and glory," Théoden said heavily, and Aragorn shook his head.

"For _Rohan,"_ he said. "For your people."

Gimli suddenly rumbled, "the sun is rising."

Legolas abruptly straightened, and his head whipped towards the Dwarf. His eyes, which had been distant and sorrowful, suddenly shone with a brilliant joy. He took a hesitant step towards Gimli, who smiled back gently under his mask of blood.

"Yes," Théoden said reverently, and the light of battle was in his old, strong face. "Yes! The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep, one last time!"

"But, my Lord, no man can sound the horn since Helm himself fell," interjected one of the tall warriors, and Gimli laughed.

"Do you mark that, Elf? No Man, he says! Well, thank Mahal I am not and shall never be a Man! This horn, I'll wager I can give it voice."

Legolas' answering laugh was a ripple of spring water, and he seemed to glow as he smiled upon the exultant Dwarf: a shining warrior, fell and fair and perilous beyond words.

Frerin suddenly gasped loudly.

"Nadad?" Thorin said, glancing down at his brother sharply. Frerin's eyes had gone wild and white, and he was staring at Gimli and Legolas as though they had grown horns and tails. "Are you well?"

Frerin's mouth opened.

Then it closed with a snap.

"Nadad?" Thorin said, turning to face Frerin properly, worried now. "Frerin, what is it? Can you not speak?"

Frerin's mouth worked uselessly for a few moments, and then he squeaked, "' _M fine."_

Thorin frowned, standing up straighter and eyeing Frerin suspiciously. "You are apparently struck dumb, but you are fine?"

Frerin nodded frantically, and then he smiled a sickly little smile.

Thorin fixed his brother with a stern eye. " _Frerin_."

Frerin's little smile faltered, and he wrung his fingers together. His eyes darted to Gimli and Legolas for a moment, before snapping back to Thorin. "Um," he managed.

"Are. You. Well?" Thorin took his brother's shoulders in his hands. "Is it the sounds of the battle again?"

Frerin licked his lips wretchedly, before patting feebly at Thorin's forearms. "Promise. I – I am well, all right? Let go, you're worse than Dori."

Thorin could feel his frown become stony, but he drew in a breath and turned away from his brother nevertheless. If Frerin wished to be mysterious, he could do so without Thorin's observance.

Beside him, Frerin sagged a bit and then he heard him mutter, " _oh, this is going to end well, I just know it. How in Durin's name could it have ever happened?"_

"If you are well enough, Gimli is to go to the watch-tower," Thorin said. "Will you follow him?"

Frerin seemed to snap back to the present, though there was still a certain wildness around his eyes. "Where will you be?"

"I will follow Aragorn, Legolas and the King into battle," Thorin said, and nodded to where the King was clapping on his helm and shouting for his horse, Snowmane. "I will not take you out there again, my brother. Stay with Gimli, you hear me?"

Frerin nodded, and unhappiness crept back into the set of his mouth. The short, blond braids of his beard twitched as he repressed a grimace of horror and memory. "All right. Thank you."

"Yes!" Gimli said joyously, and lifted his mailed fist. He immediately made for the alcove where steps could be seen leading upwards, through the tower of the citadel to the place where the great horn was fixed to the rock.

"Go, follow him," Thorin said, and squeezed his shoulder before turning away. The receding sound of Gimli's boots signalled their departure.

"Let this be the hour in which we draw swords together," Théoden said to Aragorn, who lifted his chin in agreement.

"Gandalf is right yet again, the King turns to Aragorn," Thorin said beneath his breath, and tried to repress his scowl. Occasionally Gandalf being right so often was, frankly, personally affronting, as it reminded Thorin of the many times in which he himself had ignored the Wizard's advice. "Well, we may be grateful that here we shall not encounter any trolls, Mahal forbid," he groused, and folded his arms.

The King whirled and mounted his horse as Arod and Brego were led to Legolas and Aragorn, and he drew his sword and held it aloft. "Fell deeds, awake!" he said in a voice that shook the Hall. "Now for wrath, now for ruin, and a red dawn!"

Aragorn drew his sword, and Thorin turned to face the shuddering doors, their bracing timbers splintering.

" _Forth Eorlingas_!" Théoden roared, and his people roared with him. The doors were thrown wide, and the sudden charge trampled the first several rows of Uruk-Hai beneath the churning hooves of the great strong horses of Rohan.

Above, a huge horn-blast filled the Deep until the stones rang with it, and the very air trembled at the sound.

Thorin raced through the open doors to stare down the causeway at the departing horses. Legolas was laying about with his white knives, and a new and carefree strength was in his every movement. A laugh was caught upon his lips.

"Tcch. Elves," said Thorin, and shook his head.

Strangely, the word did not taste so sour upon his tongue any more.

Théoden was leading the charge, and beside him was Aragorn. The Uruks were spilling from the ramp into the deep as they rode grimly forward, their pace unabated, towards the Deeping-coomb. The sky was the steel-grey and lavender of pre-dawn, and the surrounding mountains were touched at their peaks by pink rays of sunlight.

"The sun is rising," Thorin repeated, hope leading in his breast. Then he ran down the cause after the charging horses, passing through dead and living Uruks alike. His hands itched for Orcrist, but he had become nearly desensitised to the feeling after so long. Even so, his instincts sent him into a whirl with his arms raised over his head as a particularly large orc lurched upright, and it was not until its head did not go bouncing away that he remembered that there was no blade in his hands.

"Damn it," he growled, and repressed the urge to kick the thing. It would do no good. He ran on.

As the dawn crept over the rim of the White Mountains, a rider appeared on a ridge, clad in white and shining in the rising sun. The horn of Helm Hammerhand sounded again, and Thorin stared up at the power thus revealed. Gone was any trace of the meddling old man, and the Maiar stood cloaked in all his majesty, radiant with the light from before the marring of the world, powerful and mysterious and wise.

"Behold the White Rider!" he roared, and heard the shout picked up by Aragorn. "Behold the White Rider! Gandalf is come again!"

The figure raised its staff, and then a host appeared behind it. Clearly recognisable was the horse-tail plume of the tall Man who rode to Gandalf's side, clad in fine armour and carrying a spear. "Éomer," Thorin said in recognition, and then he shook his head at Gandalf's splendid figure. "You old trickster! You are ever borrowing armies from unexpected places!"

The host of Rohirrim spilled down the mountain as the horn sang its song of retribution once more, and the orcs milled in confusion and anger, unsettled by this new threat. They rallied half-heartedly, dazed by the light from the east and the radiance of Gandalf, lifting their spears and pikes to form a rough barrier.

It proved no use.

Shadowfax broke through the Uruk-Hai ranks as though plunging into the surf of the ocean, his proud head tossing and his neigh ringing through the valley like a trumpet. Glamdring span and the staff flickered, and Gandalf shouted encouragement as the Éored of Éomer pressed on through the disoriented Uruk-Hai. Aragorn shouted in wordless greeting as he met the Wizard upon the battlefield, and Legolas was laughing, fey and wild and joyous. All this Thorin watched from his height upon the ramp, and he marvelled at such a victory snatched from the very jaws of a terrible massacre.

"Du Bekâr!"

A sudden shout behind him made him jerk, and with a sudden rush a familiar figure was barrelling down the causeway towards the battlefield. "Gimli," Thorin said, alarmed at the sight his star made. Gimli was pale and bruised and filthy, and the blood upon his face now made him appear wan. His eyes were fierce and determined, however, and his axe was back in his hand.

"Forty!" he shouted, neatly decapitating the Uruk who had lurched at Thorin earlier, before whirling and taking off the arm of another. "Legolas! Legolas, where are you?"

"Thorin," Frerin said, rushing up to meet him and leaning against his shoulder. "Did you hear? Did you hear him?"

"I did," Thorin said, and then he smiled. "I suspect they heard him in Erebor."

"He goes to find his friends," Frerin said, and then winced as the sound of steel piercing flesh and armour reached his ears. "I... I..."

"Go," Thorin said gently, and then let a hand rest upon Frerin's golden hair. "Go. It's all right. I will see you later. There is no shame in this, Frerin. Go and take care of yourself. It is what I wish."

"Sorry," he muttered, but Thorin shook his head.

"I will have no apology from you for this. Go, and see our mother and father and all those things that bring you back from the times that hurt. Go."

Frerin gave him a startled and grateful look, before starlight limned his silhouette and he was gone from the living world.

Gimli was advancing grimly through the sea of confused Uruks, his teeth bared in a grin. "Hullo there," he said with satisfaction to a great orc with a tusked helm, "you look a likely challenge!"

"Gimli, you are exhausted," Thorin groaned, and then he pinched his nose between his fingers. "You are certainly my cousin. Is it a fault with us, do you suppose, that we do not know how to _stop?"_

"Time enough to stop when this beastie no longer troubles the earth," Gimli retorted, and he flicked his wrist, sending his axe circling in a deadly, lazy arc. "Come here, then!"

The battle that had seemed so hopeless was now turning into a rather laughable rout. The great force of Isengard was hemmed in upon all sides and many were attempting to flee, only to become trapped between the fortress and Éomer's riders. The horse-tail plume came nearer, and Gimli looked up from where he had felled the large Uruk to see Éomer himself cantering through piles of bodies, his spear held at the ready.

Even as the two Dwarves watched, however, a number of Uruks who had lain quietly amongst the dead sprang up and charged at the Rider's back. Gimli snarled in wordless outrage, and he sprang forward with a hoarse shout of his battle-cry. Two orcs fell headless, though upon the last stroke there was an almighty _clang!_

"An iron collar!" Gimli exclaimed, and brought his axe up to glare at the notched edge. "Unlucky! Still, my count is now forty-two."

Éomer slid down from his horse, his eyes wide and his expression shaken. "I shall not find it easy to repay you," he said respectfully.

"I could not possibly let you die, could I?" Gimli laughed, rubbing at the nick in his axe-blade with his thumb, "The matter of the Lady Galadriel still lies between us. I have yet to teach you gentle speech!"

Éomer smiled, and then laughed in return, leaning forward to clasp Gimli's forearm in his. "Thank you, Master Dwarf. I look forward to my lesson."

Gimli grinned up at him, before gazing about the battlefield. "It seems to be all over."

"Yes, the enemy is routed," Éomer said, laying a hand upon the neck of Firefoot his horse. "Rohan is saved, at least for now."

"As cheerful as a funeral, you Rohirrim!" Gimli said, and swiped at his bleeding forehead. "You have defeated a mighty foe, your King is himself again, and your enemies no longer tear at your heels! This is a cause worthy of celebration, surely?"

"You forget, Master Dwarf, that Saruman was only a puppet, a reflection of a far greater evil," Éomer sighed, before he looked up. "And where is our King? Gandalf told us that the lies of Gríma Wormtongue and the spells of the White Wizard had been undone, but I can scarce believe it. It has been so long since my uncle looked at me with his own eyes."

"Believe it, laddie," Gimli said, slapping Éomer's shoulder in reassurance. "I saw the transformation with my own two eyes. Théoden-King has a strong will and a sword in hand, and he will not ever let go of either ever again in his lifetime, that I'd wager!"

Éomer's eyes slid shut, and he let out a long, shuddering breath filled with old worry and heartache. "Good," he said, and sagged upon his sword, Guthwine. "Good."

Gimli swiped at his forehead again, before swearing beneath his breath and tearing another strip of his surcoat to bind his bleeding wound. "Damned thing," he muttered as he tied a firm knot. "Hasn't stopped for hours, keeps gettin' in my eyes..."

"Hours? You should have a leech see to that," Éomer said, removing his own helm as the last of the Uruk-Hai fled the battlefield, snarling and squealing in fear.

" _How_ many times... Laddie, what am I?" Gimli said, pausing in adjusting his bandage.

Éomer frowned. "You... you are Gimli, a Dwarf."

"Aye, a Dwarf. Not a Man. I can suffer hurt that a Man cannot. Believe me, this shall heal and quickly, and it is no more than an annoyance and only alarming in appearance."

Éomer held up his hands and laughed again. "I see you have had to remind people before!"

"Aye, and it gets tiring," Gimli conceded, smiling and shrugging. "Still, I have been awake for nearly two days, and I would like to sit down!"

"The land has changed," Éomer said suddenly, looking to the east and frowning. "Do you see?"

Gimli craned his neck, and Thorin also turned to look. His breath caught.

"Where did that forest come from?" he demanded of the morning air, before his gaze alighted upon Gandalf. "Where did that _forest come from?"_

Where before had stood a green dale, the sward of grass that led to the Deeping-Coomb, now there stood the swaying tops of trees. They stood rank upon rank, their great limbs twisted and their boughs tangled, their hoary heads dipping in the sunlight and the breeze. They were barely two furlongs away, and Thorin could not believe that such a mighty wood could have grown, all unnoticed, in the space of the terrible night.

"No, no matter how much it rained!" he growled, and then strode forward towards Gandalf. "How in Mahal's name have you conjured this? It is... it is miraculous, and yet-" Thorin could not find words. This was wizardry indeed.

"Peace, my friend," Gandalf murmured, and then he leaned forward as though speaking to Shadowfax, his hand carding through the silvery mane. "You truly know nothing of growing things if you think a night's rain had anything to do with this! But that is no deed of mine. It is a thing beyond even the counsel of the wise. An ancient power, all but forgotten. No, this has turned out better even than my design and all my hopes."

"Riddles!" Thorin snorted, and Gandalf smiled to himself.

"Yes, riddles. They are how the old answer questions in order to encourage the young to open their minds. Your Bilbo knew that."

"My Bilbo..." Thorin's throat snapped shut.

Gandalf straightened. "Have hope, Thorin Oakenshield. Sometimes things turn out better than we planned." He waved a hand towards the wood.

"Not for me," Thorin said, and stared at the impossible trees shifting in the dawn, the scurrying shapes of Uruk-Hai disappearing beneath their eaves. "I have never had such luck. All I lived through turned to desperation, hardship and missed chances. I do not trust to hope any longer."

Gandalf turned compassionate eyes upon him, studying him thoughtfully. "I suppose so," he said slowly, and then sighed. "The more I learn about you, Thorin, the more I wish I had known when you were here in truth. Lord Aulë is wiser than me, and no doubt he has his reasons behind your Gift. Still, there are times when I wonder if it is not cruel to parade before you all that you fought for and never won."

Thorin continued to stare out over the battlefield. "That may be nothing at all, should Mordor succeed where Isengard has failed. And I would not relinquish my Gift, no, nor Gimli's friendship and the strong, proud Erebor of Dáin, even though I may never grasp them."

"Changed and changing still," Gandalf murmured, and then he turned as Aragorn approached along with Legolas and the King.

"As ever you arrive in the very hour of need," Théoden said, grasping at Gandalf's shoulder before pulling the wizard into a rough embrace.

Gandalf's eyes widened and he seemed lost for words for once. Thorin folded his arms and watched with vast satisfaction. Aragorn laughed his soft, rusty laugh and Legolas smiled faintly.

Then a great shout came from down in the Dike, and out came Éomer and Gimli, followed by a score of Men and Elves bedraggled and weary from the battle. "Forty-two, Master Legolas!" Gimli cried in a loud, strong voice. "Alas! My axe is notched: the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?"

Legolas slid down from Arod, and stepped towards Gimli, bright Elven eyes lingering upon the rough bandage about his head. "You have passed my score by one," he said, and then a brilliant smile flashed upon his face and he fell forward to grasp Gimli's shoulders in his hands and draw the Dwarf closer. "But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!"

"Welcome, Éomer, sister-son!" Théoden said. "Now I see you are safe, I am glad indeed."

Éomer stared and stared at his uncle as though he could not believe his own eyes. "Hail, Lord of the Mark!" he said, before he ducked his head. "I... uncle, I..."

"Here," Théoden said, and pulled Éomer close to lay a kiss upon his brow. "Here now, brave one. Thank you for all you tried to do. If it were not for your sister and yourself, I would have been lost indeed, and Gandalf would have no path to bring me back to myself."

Éomer shuddered slightly and when he raised his proud, wild yellow head, his eyes were full of tears of joy.

"But come now, Gandalf!" Théoden said, turning to the Wizard though he kept his hand upon Éomer's rough cheek. "You have not told us what sorcery brought these woods here!"

"Ah, not woods alone, Théoden-King," Gandalf said, and he nodded towards the trees. "Watch!"

It began with a twitch here, a canopy swaying against the wind. Then the creak of wood and a savage scream rang out, and before Thorin could comprehend it the wood was billowing and rolling as though thrashed in a gale and the cries and shrieks of the Uruk-Hai came from under their branches. He shuddered and shrank away from the suddenly-terrible wood. "Zuznîn zurmthahor," he muttered, and pressed his feet harder against Mahal's good earth for protection.

"Yes," Gandalf said in what was nearly a drawl, his bushy eyebrows rising. "I wouldn't go near the trees if I were you."

"What is this wizardry?" Théoden breathed, staring at the wood in wonder and horror. Even Legolas, a wood-elf of Mirkwood and accustomed to dangerous forests, had drawn himself up tall and white-faced at the sight and sound of the Uruk-Hai being torn asunder under the clinging branches.

"It is not wizardry, but a power far older," Gandalf said. "A power that walked the earth ere Elf sang or hammer rang.

Ere iron was found or tree was hewn,  
When young was mountain under moon,  
Ere ring was made, or wrought was woe,  
It walked the forests long ago."

"Riddles!" Thorin growled, and threw his hands up in disgust. Gandalf's eyes twinkled.

"And what may be the answer?" Théoden asked.

"If you would learn that, you should come with me to Isengard," answered Gandalf.

"To Isengard!" cried Legolas and Éomer in unison, and Gimli shifted, his hand tightening upon his axe.

"I shall not stay there long, but I must speak with Saruman before much time has passed," Gandalf said, looking back towards the east and the Gap of Rohan where lay the valley of Orthanc. "We have not the numbers to assail the tower, for it was built by greater craft in Ages past. Still, we do not go to a battle. You need not come with me. I will meet you in Edoras henceforth, if that is your will."

"We will not desert you now," Aragorn promised, and together Gimli and Legolas moved forward to flank him. Gandalf gave them a proud and grateful look, before turning to the Rohirrim.

"In the dark hour before dawn I doubted," said Théoden, and he nodded firmly. "We will not part now. I will come with you, if that is your counsel."

"Since Saruman has done you great injury, it would be fitting if you were there," said Gandalf. "But how soon may you ride?"

"My men are weary with battle," said the King, "and I am weary also. For I have ridden far and slept little. Alas! My old age is not feigned nor due only to the whisperings of Wormtongue. It is an ill that no leech can wholly cure, not even Gandalf."

"Then let all who are to ride with me rest now," said Gandalf. "We will journey under the shadow of evening. It is as well; for it is my counsel that all our comings and goings should be as secret as may be, henceforth. But do not command many men to go with you, Théoden. We go to a parley not to a fight."

Théoden nodded back, before glancing at the sinister forest again and then turning to Éomer. "Send word to your sister," he said. "She has taken the people into the caves. They may come out if they wish, or send foodstuffs out to the menfolk if they cannot bear to see a battlefield. I will not censure them either way. We will send the old and the young to Edoras with those Riders who will bear them. My Éored I keep with me, and I would have you by my side, nephew."

Éomer bowed his head, the joy and disbelief still warring in his face.

"We will ride at dusk," Gandalf said, before he followed the King and the Third Marshall up towards the keep, where they would take their rest.

"Well, my friend, looks like I am to share a saddle with you again," Gimli said, and grinned as Legolas laughed.

"Say rather, that we are to share a saddle with Arod. And how is that hurt of yours?"

"Best not to ask, Master Legolas!" laughed Éomer, and Gimli grumbled underneath his breath for a moment.

"It was only a feeble blow and the cap turned it," he muttered as Legolas knelt before him and eased away the makeshift bandage. Underneath, blood still seeped sluggishly from the wound. "It would take more than such an orc-scratch to keep me back."

"I will tend it, while you rest," said Aragorn.

Gimli scowled, before looking up at Legolas. "I look that bad, then?"

"You are a Dwarf," said Legolas with absolute solemnity, "you cannot really help that."

Gimli snorted and pushed out with a hand, sending Legolas sprawling into the hoof-churned mud, laughing gaily. "Arrogant Elf."

"Hold still," said Aragorn wearily, bringing out a pouch from within his travel-worn jerkin. "I have athelas still, from Rivendell, though the herb is dried and less potent. I will need you to find clean water, Legolas, so stop antagonising each other and search!"

Legolas sat up. "Aragorn, we were not fighting. We have overcome the old lies..."

"Ach, leave it, laddie," said Gimli, taking Legolas' hand and hoisting him from the ground. "It's all right truly, Aragorn, just a bit o' sparring to keep in a hand. Please, Legolas, find me some water for the sake of peace – and for the sake of my poor parched throat!"

Legolas looked as though he were about to say something more, but then he squeezed Gimli's hand tightly before speeding, light-footed and sure as a deer, for the citadel.

"All right. But your teasing fools nobody, least of all me," Aragorn muttered, turning back to the Dwarf and giving him a stern look. "Now, sit down, you stubborn thing," he said, and glared until Gimli surrendered (grudgingly) and sat upon the turf. "You are a mess. Where did you stow yourself when the Deep was taken?"

"Ah, that was a marvel indeed," said Gimli, and then he yawned hugely. "Ah, sorry – it has been some days since I slept. I feel as though I could sleep so deeply it were as if my Maker's arms cradled me! I fought my way out of the Deep to the foot of the mountain. There I found the glorious caves of Helm's Deep, Aragorn, so beautiful they stole my breath and my wits for long moments. I still find it astonishing that these Rohirrim walk with such beauty beneath their feet and never see it; never know that a starlit sky rests deep under the earth, cupped underneath echoing domes and... and I find I lose the way to speak of them. My feeble words cannot capture even a tenth of their glory."

Gimli's voice was growing drowsy as he spoke. Aragorn smiled. "Your words paint a vast and beautiful picture indeed, and so they must be ten times as magnificent."

"As though Kheled-zâram had been transmuted into all the fibres of the earth, thin and sensuous like the skin of a living hand, as starry as the deepest night," Gimli sighed, and his eyes slid shut.

Thorin sat down beside the weary Dwarrow, and felt his own tiredness sweep over him. "And I have had a rest more than you," he murmured, and watched as Aragorn carefully wiped away the worst of the muck and blood from Gimli's brow with a rough but clean cloth in which the herb had been wrapped. The Man respectfully skirted Gimli's beard, but did clean away the dirt and mud from his hairline lest it seep into his wound. Gimli barely stirred.

"Are you still awake, Gimli?" Aragorn said eventually in a low voice, and Gimli did not respond. "So tired that he falls asleep on a battlefield," said the Man, and then he stretched his long legs out before him, his sword flat on the trampled grass as he tipped his straggly head back in the sunshine.

Thorin regarded him for a moment, taking in this King of Men who disappeared and was seemingly resurrected before their eyes, clad in stained leathers and an Elvish charm. " _Why_ did you never want the throne?" he wondered aloud. "Do you feel you are not fit to help your people? Do you fear the past so much? Do you prefer the wild open spaces of Eriador?"

Aragorn sighed again, his shoulders rounding as the exertions of the night caught up with him. With his face tilted back to the sun and the light striking his profile, Thorin was suddenly and for the first time struck by the resemblance Aragorn had to the great statues of the Argonath. Should he ever let his beard grow, he would be the very image of the great Kings of old.

"Here," said a light voice, and Legolas ran up upon light feet with a skin held between his hands. "I begged it from Erkenbrand. There is a spring within the keep, so I may fetch more if it is needed."

He stopped speaking to gaze at Gimli, and his eyes widened as he saw the small, broad figure lying motionless. "Is he well?"

"Yes, he is well," Aragorn said, taking a swallow of the water before wetting the bit of cloth. "He has no concussion: his eyes are sharp, the pupils focus readily, and his speech is not slurred – far from it! Surely a Dwarven head needs no helm, so hardy are their skulls! But that cut is still bleeding, and I like not how long it has bled, nor how pale he is. He but sleeps now, exhausted."

"He let me sleep the night before the battle," Legolas said, taking the cloth from Aragorn and wringing it out slightly. He hesitated, and then he began to sponge the rest of the filth from Gimli's face. Gimli did not respond, his straight Durin brows smoothed out in repose. He looked carven from stone as he lay, silent and still. "I was sorrowing and afraid of mortal grief, and he soothed my fears. He speaks to me sometimes, and the world is made a simpler place; a better place."

Aragorn took out a small bowl and in it he began to grind the dried athelas with the pommel of his knife. "I have found unexpected wisdom in all of our Fellowship, at times," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Merry and Pippin, now – there is an unexpected place to find wisdom. But their blithe spirits and irrepressible natures may teach us much."

"I never thought to find wisdom in a Dwarf," Legolas said softly, wiping down Gimli's cheek. His long, pale fingers hovered over Gimli's thick wild hair. "No, nor beauty either."

Aragorn looked up, startled. "Legolas?"

The Elf paused, and when he spoke again his voice was barely audible. "De melin, Aragorn."

There was silence, and then Aragorn shook his head roughly. "Man ebennig?" he demanded.

" _Westron_!" Thorin growled.

"De melin," Legolas said, and closed his eyes. "Melin Gimli."

"Ci vêr?" Aragorn said, leaning forward and reaching out to touch Legolas' forehead. The Elf batted his hand away irritably.

"I tell you, it is true!" he said insistently, before turning back to look down at the sleeping Dwarf. "I never knew, not until I thought him lost. Then it was clear to me. He is the one I have waited for, and nothing shall part my heart from his, not war or death or my people or his."

Thorin froze. His blood began to crystallise in his veins, except where it pounded in his temples.

Legolas looked up, defiance in his eyes. "You disapprove?"

Aragorn blew out a long breath, and then he chuckled softly. "Mellon nin, I am absolutely amazed you have not actually realised this _before now_."

Legolas blinked.

So did Thorin.

"You have been making my life a misery with your ineptitude and blindness since we left the Fords of Sarn Gebir," Aragorn continued, smiling. "I confess, I cannot understand your choice, however. You are an _Elf._ He is but a Dwarf."

Thorin's ire immediately rose, but to his absolute astonishment Legolas was miles ahead of him. "And because he is a Dwarf he is unworthy of me?" the Elf snarled in a low voice, his face twisted as Thorin had never seen it before. "Because I am an Elf, he is below me? Aragorn, you remain tangled in the old lies! He is the best of beings: the most loyal, the kindest and noblest and most beautiful. I will have no other. I _can_ have no other."

"I meant no insult to him! He is my friend and companion!" Aragorn said, alarmed. "Legolas, I only meant that he is a mortal!"

Legolas glared at the Man for a moment, and then turned away to look down upon Gimli once more. His eyes turned impossibly tender, and he said, "the jewel around your neck – was it not given to you by an Elf, son of Gilraen?"

Aragorn's mouth snapped shut, and he swallowed hard. "I love her. But she sacrifices too much for that love. I cannot bear the guilt."

"There is none to bear," Legolas said, and his long hand reached out again to touch the lock of red hair that forever escaped Gimli's braids to hang over his forehead. "No guilt to shoulder. If an Elf loves, it is our gift and our choice, and we may not take it back. You cannot take responsibility for a gift freely given."

Aragorn looked troubled, and he wrapped a hand around the Evenstar about his neck as he looked out upon the new day. "I am not worthy of her."

"That is not for you to decide," Legolas said, and he looked up again. "And now I understand why you think Gimli below me. Aragorn, you have been raised by Elves and you know our ways. Tell me, can you think of any Elf who would be dissuaded from the truth of their heart?"

The Man was still, and then he slumped. "Hand me the water-skin. I should bathe his head."

Legolas passed the skin over, and then he lay down beside the short and sturdy body, his eyes travelling over the huge arms and shoulders to the deep chest and fine beard, and then the short and thick legs with their heavy boots. "He is so different to everything I have ever known," Legolas said finally, and then he laid his head upon his hands and his eyes grew faraway and distant.

Thorin stumbled to his feet, wiping at his numb, slack mouth. Anger was still warring with disbelief in the pit of his stomach, and he could feel his wrath building, building slowly but surely beneath the surface of his shock.

" _Son of Thranduil,"_ he croaked, before he staggered backwards and reached out blindly. The stars of Gimlîn-zâram caught him as he fell.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Man ebennig? – what did you say?  
> De melin – I love him  
> Melin Gimli - I love Gimli  
> Ci vêr – are you well?  
>    
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Zuznîn zurmthahor – bad-place forest  
> Abkundûrzud - Dawning Sun  
> Ùhùrud mednu – to enter battle  
> Ghelekhel – good of good  
> Lambîn – Underground passage-place  
> Ukratîn – Glory-place  
> Ma mahdijn – I do not believe.  
> Balakhûn – power-man  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Gimli – star  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> azaghâl belkul – mighty warrior
> 
> _This chapter contains some dialogue from the film, and some from the chapters, "Helm's Deep" and "The Road to Isengard"._
> 
>  
> 
> _Now a comic! Just a heads-up: Language warning :)_
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _Chapter Twenty-Six, by_[thisly](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/71646510323/sansukh-chapter-26-thorin-will-get-it-eventually).  
>  Click [here](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/71646510323/sans%C3%BBkh-chapter-26-thorin-will-get-it-eventually) for the rest!  
> 


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope you had an amazing holiday, and that your New Year is bringing absolutely everything you want :)
> 
> **Art and artiness**
> 
> [Sansûkh - The Masterpost](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost) ( _go here for the absolute list of absolutely everything that is absolutely and totally updated phew_ )
> 
> The amazing [thisly](http://thisly.tumblr.com/) has created the most goddamned hilarious comic/illustration of the [end of last chapter](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/71646510323/sansukh-chapter-26-thorin-will-get-it-eventually), it is effing perfect, oh Aragorn you poor poor bastard.
> 
> And glorious [you-comfort-me](http://you-comfort-me.tumblr.com/) (if you love gigolas, FOLLOW YOU-COMFORT-ME DO IT NOW) has created another incredibly and pants-wettingly funny gifset - [also of last chapter](http://you-comfort-me.tumblr.com/post/72548602020/how-chapter-26-of-sansukh-ended). Eheheheeh, Thorin go BOOM. :DDD

He could do nothing. He could do _nothing!_

" _Do not think I won't kill you, Dwarf. It would be my pleasure."_

The Halls passed in a blur before his eyes, and Dwarrows scattered before his rage like ants. More fools they – his rage was powerless, ineffective. What good was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór? He was dead! _Dead_! What good was his Gift: what use was he at all? This obscenity was beyond his influence. The Elf wished to lay claim to his star.

"Again!" he roared, hearing his own voice rebound back at him through the twisting, beautiful, sombre corridors. " _Again!_ Is there nothing of ours that Elves cannot covet? Our gold and our crafts and our dignity are not enough: they must take our children as well!"

The memory of a red-headed Elf-Captain flickered into his mind's eye, and he fisted his hands in his hair and roared and roared and roared until his eyes felt as though they were on fire from the force of his cry.

This! This son of Thranduil, who had looked upon them with disdain and disgust! This sneering creature with blood of ice and eyes of flat crystal, desired Gimli. Gimli, Glóin's son, best and brightest of Dwarrows, Thorin's safe harbour for eighty years. This arrogant, cold thing, ageless and superior, wanted to hold and keep his star.

And he could do _nothing!_

" _What is this horrid creature? A goblin mutant?"_

A hammer found his hand. He swung it, and before his fury the muffled cries of others melted away. A wall crumbled. A door rose before his eyes, and he slammed it behind him. His sword fell into his other hand, crafted in his own forge, an elegant Elvish curve to the blade. It was as near to Orcrist as he could contrive without the magic of the Elves; heavier, certainly, and slightly more blocky, despite his best efforts. His best efforts now seemed a mockery.

This was all a mockery!

It sliced through the end of his workbench satisfyingly enough.

Impossible! Insanity! An Elf, to find beauty in a Dwarf! Ah, but this was the foulest of lies. As though an eternal being of stars and moonlight could ever see the Children of Mahal as anything other than ungainly, lumpen, unsightly. Thorin himself had heard it with his own ears. Legolas found them inexpressibly ugly: too short, too hairy, too broad, rough-hewn and brutish. To him, the Dwarves must be nothing more than a clumsy first attempt at life, a repugnant and awkward imitation of the true Children of Ilúvatar. A _goblin mutant_! Even his slight and bare-faced nephew had been hideous to those eyes – unnaturally blue eyes, clear as river water. Oh, Elves were beautiful, it could not be denied, but Dwarves were only beautiful to each other. No, no Elf could see the wild and rugged splendour in Gimli's rough hair, his weathered cheeks, his thick arms and legs, his hard, scarred and massive hands. How in Mahal's name could an _Elf_ – could _Thranduil's_ tall, haughty, milk-pale and white-golden spawn - ever recognise the nobility of a Dwarven face: a Durin brow, a Broadbeam nose, a handsome and abundant beard?

How could Thranduil's son ever think such a thing?

" _You! Lack all honour! I have seen how you treat your friends! We came to you once, starving, homeless; seeking your help. But you turned your back! You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!"_

Thranduil's son! Thranduil's damned son, their jailer and hunter, the one who had taken such pleasure in their capture and humiliation! It could not be borne – it was obscene. Legolas could not have changed. This was a plot. Ah, of course! All these moments of comradery and understanding were but an elaborate ploy to gain Gimli's confidence. And it had worked! No Elf in the history of Arda had ever known so much of their people. Gimli, that trusting, open soul, had given the Elf secrets, so many secrets that his ears must groan with them.

It had nearly worked upon Thorin!

" _Gimli will never be harmed by my hand, deed, or word. This I swear."_

Lies! All lies! This could not be true!

He threw himself at his tools, his rasp flying through the air to land inches deep in his packed-dirt floor, quivering. His hands scattered his carefully and meticulously organised fasteners. Bolts, brackets and solders skittered over his smithy floor like cave-insects, and he took up his heavy sword once more and took apart his cabinets with grim and methodical strokes.

" _I will do you any service, perform for you any penance, if you can only tell me that he is alive and well! If that cannot sway you, then for the love we both bear him, find him. Protect him. I cannot lose him!"_

Legolas had not said those words. He had not. He had _not!_

He was Thranduil's son. He was the child of their betrayer, spawn of that unfeeling, unmoving pale spider that crouched amongst the leaves and left Dwarven children to starve. For what – revenge over a chest of white gems? Thousands of shrunken bellies, all to placate some memory of ancient dragonfire?

But he had learned to grieve as Dwarrows grieve. And he gave Gimli comfort. And he kept their secrets...

" _He is the best of beings: the most loyal, the kindest and noblest and most beautiful. I will have no other. I_ can _have no other."_

Thorin's eyes fell upon his latest work; a pen, of course. The nib was shaped like a leaf. Bilbo would like that: he would exclaim in surprise and admire the cleverness behind the design. His eyes would light up in that way they had... and Thorin had never even kissed his Hobbit, never known what he tasted like, never supped of that clever little mouth or held those nimble hands in his own. Love was a trap, and to love was to lose. To be in love, ah – that was to be in pain.

(Did Legolas ache as Thorin ached? No. _No._ )

The nib was shaped like a leaf. In his hand, Thorin's heavy smithing-hammer, forged of the densest steel and too weighty for Frerin to lift, drooped suddenly. He could not destroy the things he had made for love.

Legolas defended Gimli, even against Aragorn. He had drawn his bow upon the tall Lord of the Rohirrim. He found beauty in their ancient traditions, strange beauty, he had said.

The Dwarves were ever betrayed. Even love did not stem the natural march of such things: for every joy, a thousand sorrows.

" _Tell me, can you think of any Elf who would be dissuaded from the truth of their heart?"_

Elves did not believe that Dwarves had hearts with which to love.

The nib was a leaf, a delicate young leaf. Thorin had etched the filament-thin lines within its blade, the fragile veins of the thing, until it almost seemed to breathe and quiver upon a tree.

Leaves and flowers and foolish, Elvish fancies!

Thorin ignored the hot flash of pain beneath his heart, and set to destroying his bellows in wilfully deaf desperation.

* * *

Balin's eyes drooped. That consummate statesman, wielder of law and treaty, veteran of the dullest meetings the line of Durin could contrive, was falling asleep in this court of Men.

 _Shameful_ , he scolded himself, jerking his sagging head upright, and then yawned. _Dwalin would be laughing up his sleeves at you, calling you old and infirm._

In his defence, the court of Brand son of Bain son of Bard was as dull as ditchwater and twice as murky. Balin found that he much preferred Dwarven politics to those of Men. Dwarrows were far more direct with these things, and tradition led where negotiations failed. The only liveliness in the court was a certain tenseness in the air: the folk of Dale knew their nearest and most powerful ally was besieged, after all. The armies of Mordor could be seen easily from the towers of the city, encircling the Mountain like a vile, malevolent moat. It could only be a matter of time until a second force broke away from the siege to 'take care' of the fat, rich, isolated city just a crow's flight to the south.

Still, the courtiers argued most insidiously their case. They wove pretty webs of words around the King, each trying to gain the most power and position. None ever ratified his decision to go to the Mountain's aid.

Brand was old now. It was strange to see him and remember the little lad who had once played with a wooden horse by Balin's feet as he spoke to King Bain about affairs of the Mountain. His hair was white and his eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, age-spots marking the backs of his slightly-shaking hands. His voice was not strong any longer, and it made Balin sad to hear it. No wonder these silk-clad butterflies found themselves so loud these days.

"...investigate closer trade terms with the Elvenking," finished one courtier, one hand clasping his doublet and the other raising a kerchief to his nose. He rather reminded Balin of the Master of Laketown, if he was honest – fine clothes and airs, but his skin was oily with brandy-sweat and his hair was lank and unwashed. "Now that the Mountain cannot provide Dale with sufficient goods and services for her needs, we must find a new source of trade. Dale must not suffer a reduction in wealth."

"Dale's markets are the wonder of the North," said a prim, pinch-faced woman with a little smile. "We certainly cannot allow our reputation to fade. Why, where would the people be?"

"Your reputation was gathered from the toymakers of the Dwarves two centuries ago," Balin growled to himself, and then he shook his head. Greed was greed, no matter the greedy: Elf, Man or Dwarf.

"Of course, the people," murmured the assembled piously. "We must think of the people."

"Your words would carry greater weight if I did not know for certain that you have laid off three dozen of your granary workers in only the last month, Lady Inorna," Brand said in his dusty, querulous old voice.

"I have only ever sought to serve this city, my King," she said sweetly, curtseying.

Several faces turned away, smirking in private disbelief.

"The Elvenking," reminded the first Man with a little cough.

"So quickly do we turn upon our best allies," sighed the King, and all the courtiers began to utter shocked denials – not too loudly, however. They certainly did not wish to be the champion of the Mountain.

Balin scowled. "You pathetic little parrots," he muttered. "In my day, I would have dizzied you with treaties and words until you had promised to dig our newest delvings for us. If not for Erebor, Dale would not even stand today! Your ingratitude will become known as the wonder of the North!"

"We only think to serve Dale, my Lord," said another with a little bow. "The Elvenking has ever been a friend to Men, and we have many things, things beyond the goods and jewels and crafts of the Mountain, which would please the Elves. Is it right that we should suffer for a quarrel between Dwarves and Orcs? No, it is not! This is not our war. We should not pay for it!"

There was a chorus of assent, and many nodded self-importantly. The courtier who had spoken looked around at his fellows with glittering, triumphant eyes. The Lady Inorna gritted her teeth in jealousy.

Brand smiled, though it was humourless. "The Elvenking has greater things on his mind than trade these days. A thrush has returned."

At this, the court fell silent. Balin leaned forward. Only the line of Girion could understand the speech of the thrushes, a matter of some disgruntlement for the Mountain's ravens. Standoffish and superior, they called it. But then, the Ravens were likewise famous amongst all others as dedicated gossips.

"He disagrees with you," Brand continued, a mild note of grim satisfaction in his old, cracked voice. Balin nodded firmly, and crossed his arms in approval. "The Elvenking is famous for his isolationist ways, but even he sees the threat in this army of Mordor. He has sent aid to the Mountain, and his sons now scatter across the lands: one in Erebor, one upon a desperate Quest, and one to the South. And here is the news you have not yet heard, my Lords. As you care so for the people of Dale, perhaps it will finally encourage you to defend them.

"Shadows gather in the South of the forest once more," Brand continued, and he pulled himself to his feet. "The old fortress is no longer empty. We are caught in a vice and can no longer tarry for foolish questions of trade and profit."

"Poppycock!" cried one Man. "Gandalf the Grey emptied Dol Guldur nearly a century ago! What proof is this? Jealousy and spite! Dale is rich and prosperous, and the Elves grow envious! The Elvenking only wishes to see Dale starve and her coffers dry, that is what this is about!"

"If only you cared so much about the starvation of our folk as you do for your poor coffers," said the laconic voice of Brand's son, Bard II, so very like his namesake that it made Balin's jaw clench in remembered guilt. "Do you not understand yet? We are trapped between an army upon our north doorstep and the horrors of Dol Guldur swarming through the reaches of the forest to the west and the south. The Greenwood will become Mirkwood once more. But what of the east, you say? The great vast plainlands, bare and barren, stretch to the east, with no shelter nor water until the Iron Hills! There is nowhere to flee. We are trapped. You thought the dragon was bad? Do consider that the worst it ever did to us was burn us alive. The Orcs will not be so kind. If they are feeling merciful, they shall kill us before they begin their true sport."

"As cheerful as the first Bard," Balin muttered.

"Peace, Bard," Brand said, holding up his bony hand. Then he wavered on his feet for a moment before drawing himself up as tall as his stooped old frame would allow. His eyes fixed upon the garish popinjays of his court with undisguised dislike. "The Elvenking is not an alternative to our treaty and our trade with Erebor. I have waited long enough for the ratification of this Council – too long, perhaps. But an unmistakeable messenger has come to us, and at great cost to himself. I can wait no longer. Dale and her allies can wait no longer. Now quiet your prattling tongues, and listen!"

"What form of messenger, another pathetic stinking bird, begging for -" began the first courtier, puffing up in indignation, before one of his fellows elbowed him silent. A small, dirty figure had emerged from behind the throne.

"But the Mountain is cut off!" muttered the woman, Inorna.

"Aye, an' no thanks to you lot!" said the Dwarf, tapping out his hat and glaring up at them. It was a ludicrous image: the soil-smeared, grey-touched miner glaring with clenched fists at the richly-dressed and elaborately coiffed merchants that had taken over Brand's court. "We've been sending ravens for bloody _weeks,_ you bastards, an' not a peep! I heard some mention o' Dale's markets before. Well, in that case you know who I am then, don't you?"

Balin stood in astonishment, and then he clapped his hands together in triumph. "Bofur!"

"Bofur of the Company has made it through to us," Brand announced before bowing slightly to Bofur, the proper gesture of respect from a King to a highly-respected Councillor of Erebor and one of the richest and most famous (or was that infamous?) Dwarves in Middle-Earth.

"Wotcher, lads," said Bofur shortly, still dusting his hat off with angry strokes of his forearm.

"Bofur, my dear fellow," said another courtier in an oily, welcoming way, but Bofur was in full fettle. Not even a signed and sealed proclamation from Durin himself could have stopped him.

"Don't you 'my dear fellow' me, I'm not your dear anything, you puffed up pack o' pigs!" he snapped, pulling away and cramming his hat back onto his head. "I am Bofur, son o' Bomfur, an' I am _not_ havin' a good day. D'you know how much earth I had t' move to tunnel out from the Mountain? Can you even guess? Guess where it went? Down my back, for the most part! There are crevices on me that feel like they're packed wi' mortar, an' that ain't even going into the sheer bloody nervousness of tunnelling eight straight miles without alerting the army on top of your heads. Want to know how much wood it takes to prop an' shore that many miles o' tunnel? I don't think there's a whole table left in Erebor!"

"My Lord Bofur," wheedled Inorna, but Bofur levelled his glare at her.

"Oh, shut it, you shrivelled-up ol' stork, I'm no Lord even if my wife is a Lady," he growled, and finger-combed roughly at his dirt-filled moustaches. "Right, here it is then. We're totally besieged, the tunnel's no way to evacuate an entire Mountain-full of Dwarrows, an' there's no possible way we're running from our home ever again, so that's that. We're not going without one hell of a fight, and so here I am. We've come to see if our alliances mean as much to Men as they do t' Dwarves, basically. O' course, no Dwarves equals no jewels, no gold, no toymarket. That's assuming that the orcs up there don't get a bit tired of tough ole Dwarf-meat after a while and start thinking of barbecuin' some nice fresh Man, so close and handy. I know a lot o' the lads who run the stalls and liveries for you, an' I've met your spearsmen an' archers. Damn fine bunch, an' I won't lie, we could use the help."

"How many Orcs besiege the Mountain?" said Bard, leaning forward intently.

Bofur had certainly found some courage in the past eighty years or so, for he did not dither or stall or bluster as he once would have. "T' be honest, I can't count that high," he said in a level voice. "Our chances don't look good. We need food, we need supplies, we need secret messengers that don't bloody get shot from the sky, we need a way to break this siege. We need our allies."

"If Dwarves are so fiercely independent of the other races, why would you need us?" sneered the brandy-reeking courtier, and Bofur huffed loudly.

"Aye, that's our reputation, no doubt. But ole Dáin says that we're here and now in the world, and I agree with him. I don't want my little lad to grow up thinkin' that suspicion and isolation is the right way to live." Bofur knocked at his head with the heel of his hand, and a shower of black dirt rustled down from his pigtails to the floor. "Mahal below, but what I wouldn't give for a beer right now. Anyway, I'm letting you know. We're maybe two months, three months away from starving, and that's when they'll wear us down. Once they're done with us, they'll turn on you – well, that's if they don't divide their forces and come and gobble you up sooner so's to save time. That one-eyed bastard down in Mordor won't be satisfied with just Erebor when he can have Dale too. And there are... things... in His army, things you don't want to meet."

Balin shuddered.

"We have to stand together, Men and Dwarves and Elves," Bofur continued firmly, planting his feet upon the stone and pressing his heels down as though calling for Mahal's blessing. "We're like to be swallowed whole, separate as we are. Many of us older ones, we can't bear to see Dale as it was ever again." His face grew sombre. "The Lady Dís remembers the first time it was destroyed. She told me to say that she would personally defend this city with her own blade, if needed."

" _The Princess, the First Advisor!"_ the whisper ran around the court, and Balin drew himself up with pride in his cousin. Dís was still a name to be reckoned with.

"My lords, you will ratify the King's motion to go to war," said Bard, drawing himself up and turning upon the courtiers, a grim look upon his face. "You will do so _now._ "

"We will leave Dale defenceless!" cried one, and she was echoed by a chorus of assent. "Our homes, our businesses, our goods!"

"Dale _is_ defenceless, if you don't mind me sayin' so," Bofur said, scratching at his chin. Another shower of dirt slithered to the ground. "Have you seen how many Orcs are out there? There isn't room to swing a cat between 'em – they're like a carpet, if a carpet smelled like a century-old breechcloth."

Balin groaned a little to himself. It seemed fatherhood hadn't exactly made Bofur's sense of humour any less crass. "Perhaps not in a _King's court_ , my friend," he mumbled, and pulled at his beard in exasperation.

"Besides, your walls are good, but they aren't _that_ good," Bofur added. "Durin's beard, I helped lay some o' that stone myself and I _know_ we did fine work. But there are enough Orcs out there to pull every stone from their foundations without spending even a fifth of their forces. If we are trapped behind the slopes of the Mountain, how exposed d'you think you are in comparison, stuck out here on this hilltop like a boil on someone's bum? To that many Orcs, you're sitting here with your britches down and your tackle exposed with your fingers stuck in your ears."

Balin closed his eyes. "Oh, Mahal _wept,"_ he mumbled in despair.

That caught their attention. Many fell quiet, with suddenly worried faces. However, the courtier that reeked of brandy and the shrill Lady Inorna could not be so easily silenced.

"We bestride the high ground," said Inorna, tossing her head. "We will destroy them before they can even lay a filthy hand upon our stones."

"They have no reason to turn to us," the Man said pompously. "Everyone knows the Mountain is richer than Dale. Erebor will hold their attention."

"Aye, but as I found out eighty years ago, gold makes for a poor sauce," Bofur said, leaning disrespectfully against the King's throne as he yanked off his boot and upturned it. A trickle of fine black soil fell from it, and Balin groaned again and resisted the urge to pull his beard up over his eyes. "We're not exactly livin' on fertile land, if you haven't noticed. Even Orcs have to eat, and Dale holds the granaries and the best part o' the livestock hereabouts. Not to mention, if an Orc wants to snack on a Dwarf, even if he can somehow manage to drag one of us down from battlements that are one hundred feet high... well, he's got to get through Dwarven armour first. That's a pretty riddle for any who don't know the trick of it!" Bofur let his boot drop to the floor and tugged off the other one, before wriggling his toes against the stones of the throne room. "But a Man, now – he barely has t' be unwrapped at all! Bit o' steel, bit o' leather, and Borin's your uncle."

"That's repulsive," said Inorna.

"I see you've not made the acquaintance of many Orcs," Bofur said, grinning. "Let me tell you then, they're not exactly polite dinner conversationalists. Still, we can be grateful they're not Goblins. They _sing._ "

"Lords, Ladies," rasped Brand, and the Dwarf fell silent as the King walked forward with careful steps. "You will ratify the decision to go to war – or I shall replace you with a Council that will."

"But, my lord Brand, this is tyranny!" spluttered a courtier, and he was echoed by a chorus of shouts. Brand's old eyes blazed and he lifted both his hands.

"And if we are all murdered by the forces of the Black Land, I hope you will feel secure in knowing that you did so as rich Men and Women," said Bard sarcastically, and Bofur snorted loudly.

"You have dishonoured your positions," Brand continued sternly. "You have spent so much time jostling for power and coin, plotting for the event of my death, that you have lost sight of your purpose. You serve nothing but yourselves. You have sullied your names and betrayed our long friendship with Erebor."

"This is intolerable," spluttered the brandy-soaked courtier, only to be met with the black sword of the Crown Prince before his eyes.

"Yes, it is," he said, his mouth a flat line. "Years ago, we were known for fair if grim dealings, for honesty and loyalty to our allies. The old Masters of Esgaroth slowly corrupted our reputation until we were but a pathetic reflection of their grasping, greedy ways. You are their fitting heirs. Dale deserves better than you."

"You're an awful lot like him, you know that?" Bofur remarked, tipping his hat back and squinting at Bard.

Bard smiled humourlessly. "So I have been told."

Brand stepped down from the dais, and nodded to a spearsman in the corner – a Captain, if Balin were any judge of the markings on his helm and breastplate. "My Lords and Ladies, I am afraid you leave me little choice," he said, before bowing his white head. "Dáin has been my friend since the day of my birth. He has watched over our city since the days of Dale's renewal, offering aid and hands and knowledge freely and without fail. We have been made rich and plentiful through the friendship of the Mountain. Now, for once, they need _our_ aid. They need _our_ hands. I will not suffer you to turn us away from our rightful obligations for the sake of your money-coffers! Call me a tyrant if you will, but you have forced us to tyranny through your greed, your avarice and your slothful indifference. Now! Make the choice! Does Dale stand and fight, or do I appoint new Councillors with less burdensome purses?"

The noise that greeted this was deafening, but the spearsmen about the throneroom all hefted their weapons and took a single step forward, and that was that.

"Well then," said Bofur cheerfully. "Thanks awfully, and we'll see you lads at the Mountain!"

* * *

"How long has he been in there?"

Frerin looked up. His elder nephew stood there, frowning at Thorin's smithy door.

"Hours," he sighed, and sat back against the corridor wall. "Hours and hours. Who sent you?"

"Grandfather," Fíli said, and then winced as a particularly loud clang rang through the air. "Poker, do you think?"

Frerin wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Shovel. Against the backplate of the forge."

"Oh, right." Fili hesitated, and then he gingerly sat down beside Frerin in the corridor. "No axes?"

For answer, Frerin snorted and jerked his head upwards. Fíli followed his gaze, and then winced. A narrow vertical hole had been torn in the door to the smithy, right up near the ceiling. It had ripped right through one corner of poor Ori's much-revised, painstakingly rewritten schedule, leaving it to hang forlornly upside down. Embedded in the ceiling of the corridor itself was a great double-headed axe.

Fíli's eyebrows shot up. "Oh."

"You missed the morningstar," Frerin muttered. "Now that was _really_ exciting."

Fili rubbed at his eyes, before he turned back to Frerin. "Alright, can you tell me what in Durin's name this is all about? Nobody will tell me anything. Óin is moaning and getting drunk again, and Ori just squeaks at me and scurries away. All I can gather is that it is about Gimli..."

"And Legolas," Frerin finished flatly, and Fíli let his voice die away, letting the expectant silence ask the question for him.

Eventually Frerin sighed, and then he turned to Fíli. "If they are not âzyungâlh by Durin's Day, I will run through the Halls in Grandmother's jewellery. _Only_ Grandmother's jewellery."

Fíli's jaw slackened, his eyes going blank and his shoulders thumping back against the wall. "Wha...?" he managed after a few moments.

"You heard."

Fili blinked several times, and then his eyes turned to the closed, splintered smithy door. Then he swallowed – hard.

" _Now_ you're getting it," Frerin said sarcastically. "He's simply thrilled about the idea, as you can tell."

"Wait, when..." Fíli began, and then he shook his head rapidly. "No. Stop, wait. Gimli and Legolas? How do you know this?"

A second clatter sounded through the air, accompanied by a short roar. "Armour?" Frerin wondered, and Fíli rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

"Weapon-stand," he groaned. "Wait, back up. This cannot be happening again."

"All I could gain from him was that Legolas confessed to Aragorn," Frerin said, and let his head fall back against the wall with a _clunk_. "The rest was mostly incoherent fury."

"He does a good line in incoherent fury," Fíli said after a pause.

"He always did," Frerin agreed.

There was an unmusical _crash_ , and then the sounds of snapping wire.

"Harp?"

"Must have been the harp."

The two blond Dwarves watched the door in wary silence for another few minutes, listening as Thorin's bellows grew more and more desperate and the ring of metal against metal more frantic. Nephew and brother alike were staring at their feet, though Frerin flinched occasionally when Thorin's curses turned particularly vicious, and Fíli's jaw grew set and hard at his choice of epithets.

"I didn't ever like Elves," Frerin said, and then he slumped down, his small hands twisting over each other. "They always looked at me like I was a worm that had learned a clever trick. But what he just said... Legolas isn't that. He's not bad. He's good."

"I never liked them either," Fíli said, and he sighed. "And then one saved my twit of a brother's life."

"Legolas has saved Gimli's life," said Frerin, though his tone was questioning rather than certain.

"Aye, and Gimli has saved Legolas." Fíli pushed down the instinctual surge of revulsion, learned over a million childhood stories and careless insults and jokes that were not really funny. "Does Gimli return the Elf's regard?"

Frerin's only answer was a long, flat look.

"Right," Fíli said, and sighed again. "Right. Why do I have the feeling I have lived through this before?"

"Because that same twitterpated brother of yours fell arse over helm for an elf," said Frerin. He pulled a face. "And who can say if Gimli will do likewise? He obviously cares, but he may not ever..." He bit at his lips. "He's a son of Durin's line, that's for sure."

Fíli glanced at the door, and then grimaced. "Oh. _Oh._ Like..."

"Yes. He may not ever know."

Fíli said the foulest word he knew. The situation sort of called for it. Frerin looked both appalled and impressed simultaneously. "Wow. Dís would have your tongue for that! Wow!"

There was a loud, metallic _twang!_

"Steel ruler," the pair said in unison.

Silence fell once more upon them, broken only by the muffled sounds of Thorin's rage.

"Are you going to try?" asked Frerin eventually.

"What can it hurt?" he said philosophically, getting to his feet and gingerly approaching the door.

"Bones, flesh, sinew," Frerin counted off on his fingers. "The Halls of Mahal, possibly."

"Ha ha. Shut up."

Frerin's voice was wheedling as he said, "Call me uncle, and I'll never speak again."

"In your dreams, itty bitty khuzdith," Fíli shot back, before turning back to the door and steeling himself. He tapped upon it with his knuckles. "Thorin? Thorin? Uncle, it's Fíli... I just want to know if you're all..."

A thunderous thump landed upon the other side of the door, making Fíli jump back from it in alarm. Thorin's voice was suddenly very close and very low as he growled a single, violence-laden word:

" _Leave."_

"I... I'll leave you alone then," Fíli stammered, and then he stumbled back against the opposite corridor once more, his heart hammering.

By his feet, Frerin shrugged. "Well. You tried."

"Has everyone received that reaction?" Fíli said, staring at the door. There was sweat beading upon his brow, he was sure of it.

Frerin chuckled, dark and low. "Yep. Be grateful you didn't get an axe thrown over your head." He scratched reflectively at his chin for a beat, and then added, "it's a damn good thing your twit brother is so fast on his feet."

Fíli stared at the door some more, and then he snorted. "My twit brother."

Frerin's mouth quirked ruefully, and he met Fíli's eyes. Not for the first time, Fíli was struck by how similar they were in appearance, even though Fíli had more than thirty years upon his younger uncle. Blue eyes, wheat-blond hair, thick eyebrows and the sharp Durin nose. Yes, very similar. "Well, I can sympathise," he said, and he stood up with a sigh, glancing back at Thorin's smithy door once before turning his head away. "Come on, I need a drink."

"To twit brothers," said Fíli, and Frerin chuckled again and grinned up at him.

"To twit brothers."

* * *

"BIFUUUUUR!"

The cry came from a blur that raced from the Chamber of Sansûkhul in a whirl of knits and auburn hair.

Quite a few Dwarrows flinched or scurried out of the way. They had learned to be wary of the Dwarves that ran from that Chamber.

(The memory of Thorin's recent thunderous tirade would not soon diminish.)

"Bifur?" the blur begged, and the poor hapless Dwarrowdam it had cornered shook and pointed down a corridor.

"THANK YOU!" the blur said as it shot away at high speeds.

The dwarrowdam sagged, and then shook her head. That tore it. She was requesting another room. This one was too close to that bloody star-pool and all the loonies who visited it.

Bifur son of Kifur was peacefully eating the petals from a new and rather delicious flower when the blur barrelled into him, talking so fast that the words were one shrill, continuous wall of sound.

"Ikhuzhûrng, ikhuzhûrng!" Bifur said, and swallowed his flower. A shame to rush it, really, but still – "Ori?"

The blur resolved itself into a trembling Ori. His hair was nearly standing on end with fright. "I'vechangedmymindEntsareterrifyingcanyouprettypleaseholdmeuntilIcanbreatheagain?"

Bifur frowned. "Ma shândi. Excuse me? You are making less sense than I ever did."

"I've changed my mind," Ori said again, and he looked down. His bloodless face began to flush red high upon his cheeks, and he ducked his face away as embarrassment began to heat his charming large ears. "Um. Forget the rest, would you?"

"No, I don't think I shall," said Bifur gently. "Come here, sanmelek."

Ori's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "What did you call me?"

"For once, I do not think I need you to translate," Bifur murmured, and he pulled the knit-wrapped younger Dwarf closer into his arms. He fit rather nicely: soft and warm and a little wriggly. "Here. Do you like flowers?"

"They're all right," Ori said, stunned. "I like anything smaller than a tree, right now."

  


_Ori and Bifur, by[Chess-ka](http://chess-ka.tumblr.com/post/73245036542/an-illustration-from-chapter-27-of-determamfidds)_

"Ah. So Ents are not as harmless as they appear." Bifur wondered at the smell of Ori's dishevelled hair. Paper and woodsmoke.

Ori shivered and ducked closer into Bifur's arms. "No. They really, really, _reaaaaaaally_ aren't. Just. Um. Can you... hold me, just until I stop shaking?"

"Certainly. Eat a flower or two, help yourself," Bifur suggested. "I promise they will not fight back."

Ori made a whimpering little noise, and pressed his face into Bifur's beard.

* * *

"Help me!" Thorin demanded, pushing the door open with his forearm and leaning there. He could feel the sweat clinging to his hair and the yawning whirlpool of disbelief in his belly. His limbs ached with exhaustion, and it seemed days since the battle. The Halls seemed unreal, dreamlike even, instead of the ultimate reality that they were; the final reality that waited for them all.

His Maker looked up, and the anvil was bare, his tongs empty. No glow rested in the flames of his forge, and his glorious, indistinct face was pensive. "Ah."

"Help me!" Thorin demanded again, and he curled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the door. "This cannot be your design! Help me understand this – why does an Elf look to my star? No, not any Elf, no," and Thorin stumbled forward, wiping at his dripping brow and laughing in half-scorn, half-disbelief; "the _son of Thranduil_ , child of a faithless and honourless hypocrite! Why – _how_...!"

The vast, rough hand of the great smith of the Valar reached out, and Thorin shook and shook and his head reeled as it settled upon his hair. The soft voice of Mahal the Shaper trembled through his bones like thunder with no sound. "Shhh, my son," he said, but Thorin could not – _would_ not – be silent. Not even for his Maker.

"And hold my tongue in the face of this!" he bellowed, and some small part of him watched on in horrified astonishment as he pushed aside the hand of his Maker with a sharp and savage cry. "This – this abomination! Gimli cannot be – if he – the Elf lies! He lies, as his father lied! He wishes something from Gimli, no doubt. His seeming conversion, his pretty words, all designed to trick! Even I was taken in by that peerless performance. Ah, but now I see through him. He will ask for white jewels next, mark my words!"

"Enough."

The word was quiet, but Thorin was struck dumb nonetheless. His eyes pressed shut and he knuckled roughly at the eyelids, before falling to his knees awkwardly upon the unfinished stone of Mahal's forge. The single word, quietly spoken, was as heavy as a hammer-blow upon his shoulders. Thorin bent his head and fought back his anger and his terrible, crushing fear.

"You are speaking folly, and you know it." There was no censure in the great, soft voice, but neither was there any gentleness. "You have seen the true nature of Legolas Thranduilion, and you seek to deny that knowledge by spouting old hatreds. Stop falling back into old and unhealthy habits, inùdoy. You have grown larger than their smallness."

Thorin breathed roughly against his hands for a few moments, and forced the tears back behind his eyes. He would shed none for the Elf: none. "Help me," he grated, and bent until his head pressed against the cool stones. " _Help me._ "

"Shhh," said Mahal once more, and Thorin bit off the hundreds of angry words that crowded upon his tongue. "Shhh. Thorin. You are ready to know, and so now you know. Before, you could not have borne this knowledge. You need little help from me, if any. You will learn to understand, in your own time. You have all you need within your head and heart already."

"I do not," Thorin growled, and his mouth tugged into the angry and bitter lines that had so recently begun to soften. "I cannot."

"You can."

"I am not made of such stuff," Thorin began, only to be interrupted by a soft chuckle like the susurration of a mighty underground river.

"If any knows what it is you are made of, it is me," the Vala said. Thorin huffed in irritation against the floor, feeling his hot and sour breath bouncing back upon his face. "You are not made of the rock of the earth nor of the steel of swords. You are not stone, nor a weapon, nor recalcitrant iron to be shaped by the pounding of unkind fate. You are flesh, and flesh is malleable – yes, even for Dwarves! You can adapt. You can change. In fact, my child, you already have. You simply do not believe it yet."

"I care little for myself," muttered Thorin. "My star. What of him? He cares for the Elf in return, but he cannot truly..."

"Gimli is his own Dwarrow, and always has been." He could hear the small smile in Mahal's voice.

"But he... will not look to an Elf?" Thorin said, and he looked up, hating the note of pleading in his voice, hating that he could not protect Gimli from what might lie in his own heart. "Please. Grant me this surety. My star will not look to Thranduil's son and see the face of his One. Please. _Please."_

"Ach," his Maker said, and then the great hand tipped his chin upwards and ran a thumb over his shorn beard. "You have reddened your eyes, my child. Your body is weary beyond measure, and you have not eaten. How many of your brothers and sisters did you terrify today?"

"Answer me!" Thorin snarled, and Mahal's hand tightened slightly upon his jaw.

"Is it so terrible to look to another race and find that they are fair?"

Thorin gritted his teeth. "And after the looking, and after the finding? After all joys and all bonds and all oaths? Disaster follows, and always has. That is what it means to be Khazâd!"

"Do you truly think so?"

"Aye," Thorin said, and he glared up at his Maker. "We are ever betrayed, by fate and by chance and by fickle inconstancy. Other races may hold their vows cheaply, but we must endure and suffer! I cannot see this for Gimli – I will not watch him love and lose!"

The great voice pierced through his flesh as it murmured, "not always, my son. Sometimes the love remains, despite war, death and age. Sometimes it burns as warm embers, to be renewed in days of blissful peace. Sometimes it is not a wound, but a promise."

There was a small pause, and then Mahal's smile shone its radiance upon Thorin's brow, warm as the forge-fire, as comforting as his mother's arms or his father's great beard. "You know this, near better than anyone. You know how a promise may be made between worlds. A Dwarf's devotion has not ever been greater."

Thorin sucked in a breath that stung his lungs, and then he balled his fists tightly. "No. This is not myself and Bilbo – this is not our sad tale of missed chances and vanished hope. At least I have this: that I have never disgusted Bilbo. But my brave, faithful, noble Gimli! Will he look to an honourless Elf, a creature who has held him in utmost contempt and finds him repulsive beyond words, and behold the dearest and most hopeless longing of his heart?"

"You speak great foolishness," Mahal said, and there was a slight note of anger in his voice – faint, like a distant thunderstorm, but growing louder. "An opinion may change. Tell me, did Bilbo delight you upon your first meeting?"

"You know he did not," Thorin growled, and then he clenched his eyes shut. "A Hobbit is not an Elf."

"And a son is not his father," said Mahal. "Legolas is not Thranduil. They are as different as the phases of Isil as it traces through the sky. Where Thranduil Oropherion is wounded and scarred, hardened beyond healing, Legolas Thranduilion is whole and as flexible as a young sapling. Stone and root, green leaf and good dark earth, you have felt with your own heart how they may intertwine."

"Fair words," Thorin said, and made a savage noise of anguish as he looked up, glaring. "Fair riddles! Must all talk in circles?"

"I forget sometimes that you cannot feel the patterns as I do," Mahal said, and there was true chagrin in his great and glorious face. "I did not make you to hear the song of Eä."

Thorin only leant forward upon his hands, the cool stone of the floor seeping into his knees and palms, his hair spilling around his face as he fought back the fury that threatened to overwhelm him once more.

"Peace, Thorin. Legolas looks upon Gimli with his own eyes, not the eyes of his father. You have seen how they have grown. They see in each other a new and compelling fascination, strange, strange but fair, unlike and yet like. Our bright and fierce star does not burn without an appreciative audience."

Thorin grimaced in disgust, his lip curling.

"Do not return to old, comfortable and twisted ways of thinking," said Mahal, gentle once more. His touch made the marrow of Thorin's spine freeze and the blood roil under his skin. "You have become wiser than that, my son."

Thorin bowed his head, and then he shook it roughly. "No, I have not. I am not wise, nor have I ever been. Balin is wise, Bilbo is wise, Elrond, Galadriel and those other untouchable and unfathomable Lords and Ladies, they are wise. I am not, or I could bear this!"

"'ikhuzh, inùdoy." The great gnarled forefinger rose and touched his eyes, and Thorin cried out involuntarily before falling to his elbows and clasping at his face. "Wait and be calm. I have repaired your eyes – you had broken blood vessels, in your anger."

"Óin will be furious," Thorin mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

" _You_ are furious. Put aside these ancient excuses, and tell me why."

Thorin sat still as a stature for a moment. When his voice emerged, it was deep and soft, nearly noiseless. "Legolas may believe that he loves Gimli, but what if Gimli should love him back?" he whispered, and then he swallowed. "I fear for my star. I fear for what may happen. Legolas may not be Thranduil, but his people have been shown to disregard their vows and their friendships. I..." He broke off, his chest aching as though Mahal had taken his ribs in his mighty hands and was slowly crushing the life from him.

"Strength, my son," said his Maker, and life surged into him with the words.

He looked up. "I have seen one I care for wait decade upon decade, holding his love trapped forever behind his tongue, growing old all alone, the only reward for his constancy a lifetime of crushed hopes and a wandering mind. When the Elf tires of his unusual object of affection, then what fate is this for the best Dwarf I have ever known? Legolas may fancy himself in love now, but what of his father? His people? He has been raised upon foul slanders of my folk, and I have heard him with my own ears, insulting Gimli and calling him as foul as an Orc. When Legolas is surrounded by Elves once more, how fair will Gimli appear that day? All the nobility and honesty and bravery in the world may not hold the weight of a parent's disapproval, nor a lifetime of disgust and disdain."

"Have faith in him," Mahal suggested, and Thorin snorted loudly.

"Faith. I have faith in Gimli, for he is faithfulness itself. That I can hold to. The rest? I have had faith before, and I have lost everything. Those I care for paid the price. I am not one to speak of faith any longer."

"Do you forget your Name?" said his Maker's voice, rolling through his flesh, piercing him through and pinning him to the floor. Thorin's teeth rattled, and he trembled uncontrollably. "You are where hope is forged, my relentless, indomitable son. Do not despair. Not all lovers must be sundered. You will find your hope again."

"It is too late," said Thorin, and he turned away. The shame in the first aftermath of his rage now began to wash over him, and he rubbed at his stinging eyes some more. He felt old, and tired. "All is too late. I am dead, and so is hope, and it cannot be reforged. The world topples into darkness, and my star will perish in the fires of Mordor or grieve until his light is extinguished forever."

[ ](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/73276249965/so-the-latest-chapter-of-snasukh-hit-pretty)

  


_Thorin, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/73276249965/so-the-latest-chapter-of-snasukh-hit-pretty)_

"All things can be reforged, Thorin, especially hope," said Mahal, and the distant thunder rumbled beneath his words, as though in agreement. "And as Varda does not allow her stars to dim before their time, neither do I."

* * *

Bomfrís walked across the room, her face screwed up with concentration.

"Good, good," said Barís critically. "Try straightening your back a bit more. And stop watching your feet."

Bomfrís straightened as much as she could, stiffening like a board. Her eyes snapped to the ceiling.

"Better," said Barís, but no sooner had the word left her mouth than her sister stepped upon the hem of the great heavy dress she had borrowed and slammed against the dining table. "Oh, Durin's beard!"

"Ow," said Bomfrís, somewhat muffled and extremely cross.

"Here we are," said her older sister anxiously, pulling Bomfrís up and dusting her off as best she could. "Are you all right? Have you hurt yourself?"

"Oh get off, you're as bad as Mum," grumbled Bomfrís, nursing her knee. "I can't do this, namad."

"Now now, you've only just started," said Barís kindly, tucking Bomfrís' fiery hair behind her ears. "Don't give up so easily. I was hopeless when I began!"

"But you've been doing it for fifty years now," muttered Bomfrís. "I can't. I'm not made this way."

"You're not used to others around you, is all," Barís said, and gently sat her younger sister down. "You've been on your own so much, you've forgotten how to talk to anyone who isn't a raven. Come on, take that silly thing off and I'll get you a hot drink."

"I hope it's stronger than bloody tea," Bomfrís said beneath her breath, and she began to pull at the gown's neckline. "I hate this, it feels like a noose. How do you stand it?"

"As you say, I've been at court for fifty years," Barís said, bustling away towards the kitchen. "You get used to the fashions eventually. I'll ask Gimrís to help when she has a moment, if you like."

Bomfrís grumbled, pulling the dress off and kicking off the jewelled boots with vicious satisfaction. "Why can't I wear my boiled leathers and armguards?" she said, glaring at her reflection in the mirror. A very cross ginger-headed Dwarrowdam glared back at her, clad only in a shift and a scowl. "Everyone knows I am the archer Bomfrís, child of a tanner and a cook! Why put on airs?"

"Because he is _the Crown Prince,_ namad," Barís said, fussing with the kettle. She decided to add a drop or two of something bracing in the tea for Bomfrís. Her impetuous middle sister had had her nerves stretched to the limit over the past few days. It was the last of the summer liquor, but what use was it in the bottle? Rationing was only rational to a point: the soul had to survive as well as the body. "I know you have not forgotten."

"Thorin," said Bomfrís softly, and then she sat down heavily and stared at her feet. She had cuts on her shins from climbing up to the rookeries. "The Lady Dís never pays attention to the stupid fashions. Nor does the Queen."

"The Lady Dís is old enough to do as she likes, I suppose" Barís said cheerfully. "And you're not Queen yet, namadith!"

"That has to be the worst joke the Valar have ever played on the Line of Durin," said Bomfrís glumly. "I am the worst possible Dwarrow in the world to become a member of the ruling family."

"But you knew, didn't you?" Barís said, returning and handing Bomfrís a cup. Her sister sniffed at it, and then her eyes warmed with appreciation at the slight smell of heady liquor that tinged the scent of tea. "You knew all at once. That he was the One."

"Yes," Bomfrís sighed again, and took a sip. "I just. Barís, I'm not like you. I can't look regal and calm, I can't mesmerise a crowd with my very presence, and I can't walk in one of those great galumphing gowns without watching my feet. Court manners are stupid and convoluted. We're Dwarrows, not _Elves!_ Ugh. Ravens are simpler. They don't care if I wear breeches or go without the stupid formal petticoats."

"The Stonehelm is not a raven," Barís said, and nudged Bomfrís shoulder. "Nor is he an Elf."

Bomfrís gave her sister a quick, annoyed look that quickly melted into a foolish grin. "No, he isn't."

"You are so lucky, my sister," said Barís after a moment, and she wrapped an arm around Bomfrís' shoulders. "And I am so happy for you."

"I wish he were anyone other than a Crown Prince," Bomfrís said, and then she gulped at her mug again. "Well, not really, for then he wouldn't be _Thorin_ , with all his clever words and ways. But - sort of. He's... Oh, Barís, I hate this. We're at war, and I barely know him! I've spent more time with that great blond prat Laerophen!"

"Shhh," Barís soothed, pulling Bomfrís a little closer. The younger Dwarrowdam buried her face in her sister's great cloud of thick, bushy brown hair. "Shhh. What will come to pass will come to pass, and we do what we can, namadith. You fight in your way, and I in mine. You'll have time to know each other when our part is done."

"Yes, I heard about the tunnel idea," mumbled Bomfrís, before she pulled back to look up at her sister with a glint in her eye. "You canny old thing. So, did it impress her?"

Barís blinked, and then she felt her traitorous blush begin somewhere around her ankles and slowly travel upwards with the speed of a wildfire.

"Thought so!" Bomfrís crowed, and she clapped her hands and stamped her bare feet in glee. "Oh, namad, your face is scarlet and purple!"

"That's none of your business," Barís mumbled, but Bomfrís would not be deterred.

"Oh come _on_ , you spend all your time looking after the rest of us, let me listen to you pour your poor heart out."

Barís looked upwards, drawing upon every ounce of dignity she possessed as both a member of the Guild of Musicians and as a Master Performer. " _No."_

  
[](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/74693933627/baris-and-bomfris-chapter-27-of-sansukh)

_Barís and Bomfrís, by[Remyblue](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/74693933627/baris-and-bomfris-chapter-27-of-sansukh) _

Bomfrís wrinkled her nose. "Barís, you're not exactly subtle anymore..."

"I don't care," Barís said sharply. It was so unlike her to snap that Bomfrís actually rocked backwards.

"Barís, I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "I didn't know you were so upset about it."

The singer swallowed, and then she bent her head. "Sometimes I wish I was like Barur or Bolrur or Alfrís, and that my craft filled my heart brimful until there wasn't room for any of this - this yearning," she said quietly, her marvellous voice little more than the wind brushing through the chamber."We're not all as lucky as you, namad."

Bomfrís fumbled for Barís' hand, and upon finding it she held on tightly. Bowstring-rough fingers met gittern calluses. "We are so stupid," she said, letting her head rest against Barís'. "The Mountain could fall tomorrow."

"That's why it all seems so urgent, I suppose," Barís said distantly, squeezing Bomfrís' hand. "We reach for any small chance of happiness _now,_ before it is too late."

"I want you to be happy, Barís," said Bomfrís in a small voice. Barís squeezed Bomfrís' hand again, marvelling that her brash, loud, unsocial little sister could even speak in such a quiet tone.

"I want you to be happy too," she said, and then she heaved a sigh. "Wear what you want, Bomfrís, and spit in their eyes if they don't like it. You are who you are, and that is no bad thing."

Bomfrís blinked, and then she looked down. "I think you should ask her again."

"We'll see," Barís said, and she thought longingly of corn-yellow hair and a sweet, crooked, cynical smile. "We'll see."

* * *

He slept, though his heart was troubled. He tossed and turned through the night. At one stage, he thought he heard voices above him.

" _Please. He is dear to me, and thine is the gift of peace and compassion."_

" _He hath found little enough in his life,"_ said the new voice, a female voice. " _His is a spirit of fire and steel."_

" _Not for nothing was he given his Name, no."_

" _I will try."_

A soft, sweet-smelling hand, as large to him as an adult's is to a child's, touched his brow. Thorin's eyes welled with tears, and he finally lay still.

" _There. That is all I may give him, for the rest he knoweth already though it brings him no peace. I fear for such a soul, Shaper. The last time a spirit of fire and steel burned in anger, the world itself was forever made darker and colder."_

" _He hath passed through darkness already,"_ said the male voice, and half-asleep, Thorin turned to it as a sunflower turns to the sun. His Maker. The hands that had shaped him would shield him, shield him from this terrible crushing sorrow. " _And hope burns brightest in the dark. Nienna, for such kindness, I thank you."_

" _I do not know if my tears will serve in the place of all those he has never shed, but I will weep for him,"_ said the woman, and then Thorin was asleep in truth and knew no more.

  
  
Nienna the Weeper, by [Fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/118841749890/nienna-my-fav-valar-for-dets-bc-sans%C3%BBkh-will)  


When he woke, Frís was seated at the end of his bed.

"What time is it?" he croaked. His mother jerked in surprise, and then she leaned forward and smoothed her thumb beneath his eyes.

"You have been weeping," she said softly, and then she pressed her head against his. "Oh, my stormcloud. I knew. I knew you were not ready."

"I could never be ready," he said, and he turned his eyes away. The anger was banked to a dull glow in his chest, but oh, his mouth was parched and shame was closing his throat tightly. "The time?"

"An hour past midday. You have missed your shift," she said, and smiled wryly. "Your brother took it for you."

So late! Thorin struggled upright in his sheets, and Frís stood and poured him a cup of water from the nightstand jug. "You have done quite the number on your smithy," she said noncommittally as he grabbed for the water and near-inhaled it. "There is barely a whole thing left within it. I was most impressed that you were able to snap a steel poker into two pieces."

Thorin winced and lowered his cup, bending his head down.

"Your rage is an honest thing, my son," Frís said, sitting down beside him again and pushing back his madly snarled hair. "But you have never been able to control it: never."

"I did not hurt anyone," he said, and hated that the end of the sentence curled upwards into a question.

"No," she said, and smiled. "You have learned. Tell me, can you eat?"

For answer, Thorin's stomach growled – loudly. He squeezed his eyes shut again.

"I cannot possibly face the Halls after my... display."

"Hush, get up, and wash yourself," his mother said – gently to be sure, but an order was an order. "I will tend your hair, inùdoy."

Thorin sighed and pushed all thoughts from his mind. Blank as slate, he moved through the motions of living, though for what purpose he could not have said.

Luncheon was a sombre, stilted affair. Most Dwarrows in the Halls ducked away as he passed, and the minute he entered the great eating-chamber, a hush spread through it that never truly dissipated, though whispering began the minute Thorin took his seat. His father patted his shoulder in wordless commiseration, and across the tables Óin only shook his head miserably when Thorin nodded cautiously in greeting. His beard was a wreck, and he pulled at it in his distress.

"I know," he moaned. "Oh, laddie, I _know._ "

Thrór ignored the hubbub. He spoke as though nothing had occurred yesterday at all, gruff and bluff and measured as always. Hrera was stiff and disapproving. Frerin was silent and subdued, pushing his stew around his plate absently. His nephews were wide-eyed and worried, and they kept their gazes upon him as they ate. Kíli was so preoccupied that he nearly spooned his stew directly into his eye.

Kíli had looked upon an Elf and found her fair as starlight, and an Elf had looked upon Kíli and had not turned away.

_Crrrrack!_

Every head whipped towards him, and Thorin carefully, carefully relaxed his hand where he had begun to snap the thick hardwood table. Then he scowled as blackly as he was able (several Dwarrows squeaked and scurried away), and bent his head to his food, allowing his hair to form a curtain around him.

The rest of the meal was eaten in tense silence.

Fris drew Thorin aside as he was leaving, smoothing down his tunic and then pushing his hair back once more. "Lóni has reported, as has Balin," she said, and then she tsked and touched his brow. "There they are once more, those cursed lines," she said softly to herself. "How I wish they were gone for good."

Thorin did not know what to say to that, so he simply stood there in the corridor, his mother's fingers trailing upon his forehead.

Frís shook herself, and she refocused, her hand slipping down to comb through his neatened hair. "Théoden-King and Gandalf have taken council, and they will travel to Isengard with their retinue this night," she said, delicately avoiding the names of the Elf or his star. "Brand of Dale has finally forced his Council to come to a decision, and the forces of Dale will march for the Mountain in little less than a fortnight."

Thorin frowned. "That is scarcely time enough to muster an army."

She smiled thinly. "Your cousin managed it."

"Dáin is no ordinary Dwarrow and his army was no common army," Thorin retorted. "There is more, is there not?"

She nodded, and then pulled a slight face. "I was not able to decipher much of Ori's report..."

 _That_ was surprising. Thorin blinked, briefly shaken from his sour mood.

"... but I gather that the Ents have laid waste to Isengard and taken Orthanc's keys from Saruman himself and trapped him in his tower. At least, I think that was what he said," she added.

"Hmph," Thorin grunted, and then he set his jaw. "I will rejoin Gimli now."

"You will take your brother," she said, her voice just as firm as his. He glowered for a moment, and then nodded his head once.

Frís leaned up on her toes and kissed his cheek, before tugging upon one of his braids. "Sulking is a bad habit, inùdoy," she said in a clipped voice. "Yes, you have reason for your upset. No, you have no cause to take it out upon others. Do you hear?"

He growled. She tugged upon his braid more sharply, and he hissed. "Yes! Let go! 'Amad, I am no pouting child, I am fully aware of the foolishness of my actions, and I would fain be elsewhere where none can stare at me for my foul temper!"

She did, soothing his head with a stroke of her open hand. "Oh, son," she said, and then she leaned her forehead against his once more. "You are of the Line of Durin, of _course_ you have a terrible temper. That is not why they stare. Mahal's hammer and tongs, many of the Dwarrows here are Firebeards, and they could put a Longbeard to shame with the explosion of their anger."

"Why, then?" he said, his voice rough.

"For the self-same cause of that temper," she replied, and her hands hovered above his shoulders for a moment, before they clasped him tightly. "They knew of Gimli and the Elf, and they know how much you love him. Everyone knows of the Quest, Thorin. Everyone knows what you do, and how you watch, day in and out. You misunderstand how many here in the Halls admire you and your resolve, my steely stormcloud. There are songs being sung and tales told of your dedication and loyalty to the living. Each of your friends and companions is treated with some reflected measure of awe, and new offers to join in the watch come thick and fast every day." She smiled at his dumbfounded look. "Oh, Thorin, my magnificent Thorin - you truly are the most unobservant Dwarf to ever live."

"I... I..." he stammered, his mind adrift and his mouth open. Then he whirled upon one heel and stalked away towards the Chamber of Sansûkhul as fast as his boots could carry him.

"I'll send your brother after you, shall I?" Frís called after him, warm amusement and pride in her voice.

It was afternoon upon the plains of Rohan, and Thorin shook himself free of the clinging starlight, trying to shake free his turbulent thoughts. The sight that greeted him was not one of reassurance. The strange new wood before Helm's Dike sprawled before him, a tangled and snarled frown upon the landscape. Mist swirled around the trees, and their sweeping boughs reached out like long, grasping fingers.

Even less reassuring was the sight of Legolas seated upon Arod, with Gimli mounted securely behind him. Gimli's head was still bound, but his eyes were bright and he had somewhere recovered his helm, which hung at the saddlebow. His hand was looped around the Elf's slender waist, his thumb tucked into the leaf-embossed belt.

Thorin bit back the tirade that threatened to burst from behind his lips, and concentrated upon breathing through his nose.

"We ride through," Gandalf said, lifting his staff. Beside him, Théoden and Éomer paled. Aragorn, however, gave the wood a determined look.

"Through, then," he said, and looked back at Legolas and Gimli. Legolas nodded ever so slightly. There was a strange confusion half-hidden in his eyes.

"He looks like a Dwarfling who has no idea how to shape the priceless stone handed to him," commented Frerin, appearing beside Thorin in a corona of starlight. Thorin grunted. "Are you going to bite my head off if I talk?"

"Talk as you will," Thorin muttered, and folded his arms.

"Oh, I was going to anyway," Frerin said, shrugging. "You shouldn't terrify everyone all the time, after all. It's bad for your ego."

Despite himself, Thorin's mouth twitched. "I thank you for your concern for my ego."

"I've always felt it my duty to puncture it as often as possible," said Frerin loftily. "What's going on?"

Thorin nodded to the slow, careful train of horses as they picked their way into the miraculous, brooding, impossible Forest. "They now make their way to Isengard."

Frerin jerked backwards. "To face Saruman? A Wizard?"

"He is defeated, 'amad tells me," Thorin said, and he began to make his way after the horses as they moved into the shifting shadows of the trees. "Trapped in his tower."

"Oh." Frerin followed, his tongue still as he thought about this for a moment. "Well, good. I wouldn't like to face a Wizard upon their terms, not at all."

"It is hot in here," Legolas said, his voice hushed. "I feel a great wrath around me. Do you not feel the air throb in your ears?"

"I feel hot, that's for sure and certain," Gimli muttered, but he looked about at the trees with wary eyes.

"These are the strangest trees I ever saw," Legolas said, "and I have seen many an oak grow from acorn to ruinous age. I wish I had time to walk amongst them: they have voices, and in time I might grow to understand their thought."

Thorin could not help but notice (with increasing sourness) that Legolas' eyes flickered to his travelling companion as he finished speaking.

"No, no!" Gimli said, alarmed. "Let us leave them! I guess their thought already: hatred of all that goes on two legs, and their speech is of crushing and strangling."

"Not all that goes on two legs," Legolas said. "It is Orcs that they hate. Of Elves and Men, they know little, but the axes of Isengard they know well. From the deep dales of Fangorn, Gimli, that is whence they come, I guess."

"And what of the axes of the Dwarves? Do they know aught of them?" Gimli mumbled, and he looked up at the trees, his jaw rippling beneath his beard. Legolas laughed softly.

"Be easy, my dearest friend! These woods are a wonder!"

Gimli harrumphed. "You may think them wonderful, but I have seen a greater wonder in this land, more beautiful than any grove or glade that ever grew: my heart is still full of it.

"Strange are the ways of Men, Legolas! Here they have one of the marvels of the Northern World, and what do they say of it? Caves, they say! Caves! Holes to fly to in time of war, to store fodder in! My good Legolas, do you know that the caverns of Helm's Deep are vast and beautiful? There would be an endless pilgrimage of Dwarves, merely to gaze at them, if such things were known to be. Aye indeed, they would pay pure gold for a brief glance!"

Frerin sighed longingly. "He isn't wrong."

"And I would give gold to be excused," said Legolas, "and double to be let out, if I strayed in!"

"Khuthûzh!" Thorin growled. Frerin's little hand upon his arm was a gentle reminder that his temper was not wholly under his control as yet. He shuddered and brought himself to bear. He must not rage like a worthless thrall, useless and powerless. He must watch.

"You have not seen, so I forgive your jest," said Gimli. "But you speak like a fool."

Legolas did not say anything, but the tips of his ears turned a brilliant red and his lips pressed together tightly. Thorin wished he could ignore the flush of embarrassment that was spreading over the fair Elven face. So many things he had not seen before were now clear to him. Happy were the ignorant!

Gimli had not noticed. He continued in a dreamy tone, a smile half-tugging at his lips as he spoke. "Do you think those halls are fair, where your King dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves helped in their making long ago? They are but hovels compared with the caverns I have seen here: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight."

Legolas' flush faded as Gimli spoke, and his strange crystalline eyes glistened as he listened intently to the deep Dwarven voice, lilting in the sunset as though it were reciting one of the old poems. Gimli's words floated through the mist and between the twisted trees, low and rolling and touched with the rich accent of Thaforabbad.

"And, Legolas," Gimli rumbled softly, "when the torches are kindled and men walk on the sandy floors under the echoing domes, ah! then, Legolas, gems and crystals and veins of precious ore glint in the polished walls; and the light glows through folded marbles. There are columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose, Legolas, fluted and twisted into dreamlike forms; they spring up from many-coloured floors to meet the glistening pendants of the roof: wings, ropes, curtains fine as frozen clouds; spears, banners, pinnacles of suspended palaces! Still lakes mirror them: a glimmering world looks up from dark pools covered with clear glass; cities, such as the mind of Durin could scarce have imagined in his sleep, stretch on through avenues and pillared courts, on into the dark recesses where no light can come. And - _plink_!"

Legolas blinked at the change of tone, and Arod snorted his irritation at the laxness of the reins. Thorin then saw that Legolas had been near-mesmerised by Gimli's description, and the flush had returned to stain his cheeks a light pink. The Elf blinked and grasped at the reins more firmly to cover his lapse.

Frerin coughed uncomfortably.

Gimli lifted one great hand in the air as though he were releasing a single droplet of water, a half-smile upon his face. "A silver drop falls, and the round wrinkles in the glass make all the towers bend and waver like weeds and corals in a grotto of the sea. There is chamber after chamber, Legolas; hall opening out of hall, dome after dome, stair beyond stair; and still the winding paths lead on into the mountains' heart. Caves! The Caverns of Helm's Deep! Happy was the chance that drove me there! It makes me weep to leave them."

Legolas blinked as though rousing himself from a dream. With some effort he mustered his light and bantering tone, and Thorin hated that he could now see the struggle it cost him. "Then I will wish you this fortune for your comfort, Gimli," said the Elf, "that you may come safe from war and return to see them again. But do not tell all your kindred! There seems little left for them to do, from your account. Maybe the men of this land are wise to say little: one family of busy dwarves with hammer and chisel might mar more than they made."

"No, you do not understand," said Gimli reverently, the rumble of his voice soft as a fervent prayer. "No Dwarf could be unmoved by such loveliness. None of Durin's race would mine those caves for stones or ore, not if diamonds and gold could be got there. Do you cut down groves of blossoming trees in the spring-time for firewood? We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them. With cautious skill, tap by tap – a small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day – so we could work, and as the years went by, we should open up new ways, and display far chambers that are still dark, glimpsed only as a void beyond fissures in the rock. And lights, Legolas! We should make lights such lamps as once shone in Khazad-dûm; and when we wished we would drive away the night that has lain there since the hills were made; and when we desired rest, we would let the night return."

There was finally silence as Gimli's deep voice trailed away into the trees, and then Legolas heaved a deep, awed sigh.

"You move me, Gimli," he said in a hushed tone. "I have never heard you speak like this before. Almost you make me regret that I have not seen these caves."

Then the Elf shook himself, and the light of an idea entered his eyes. "Come! Let us make this bargain – if we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey for a while together. You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to see Helm's Deep."

"He seeks a way to keep Gimli with him," Thorin realised, and his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles creaked. "He will not succeed. Gimli will return to Erebor, to his home and kin."

"Don't be too sure," Frerin mumbled, and he ducked as Thorin's glare was turned upon him. "Augh! Stop!"

"Why would a Dwarf of Durin's line care to visit a festering and spiteful heap of wood?" Thorin demanded of Frerin, and he whirled back to aim his glare at Legolas. "No. Gimli will go to our home. _Our home._ To his father and mother and sister and nephew, to those that know him and care for him. He is a Dwarf, he belongs with Dwarves. This Elf cannot love him the way they do; this Elf cannot ever understand everything that he is!"

"Thorin, he will _hear you!"_ Frerin hissed.

"Good!" Thorin snarled, but his voice lowered despite himself. "He cannot care so dearly for the Elf in return," he growled, his fingernails cutting into his palms as his fists tightened ever further. "He cannot. He _cannot."_

The sunset was sending fingers of light through the sinister trees, making them look touched with gold and etching the gnarled limbs and the whorls of ancient bark with dark black shadows. Gimli glanced at them apprehensively, before he straightened and clapped Legolas on the back in a comradely fashion.

"That is _not_ the way I would have chosen to go, to trees before stone, nay!" he said jovially, "But I will endure Fangorn if only to share the wonder of the Caves with you."

" _Gimli_!" Thorin exclaimed, aghast. "It cannot be!"

"Please don't explode again," Frerin moaned, covering his head. "You're running out of things to break, and I don't want you to start on people!"

Thorin snarled wordlessly, before stalking away. His mind was aflame and his whole body was shaking.

Gimli had agreed.

* * *

His smithy was a ruin.

Thorin picked through the wreckage in the small hours of the night. Sleep had eluded him, and his anger was a near-living thing that shared the same body as he. He had padded his way barefoot and unbraided through the near-deserted Halls to calm himself, clad in only his sleep-pants, only to find himself before his smithy door.

His _broken_ smithy door.

He pushed it open with his fingertips, and at the sight of the carnage before him, his anger abruptly fizzled and died, leaving shame and regret in its wake.

"Made a proper go of it, didn't you?" said Bilbo conversationally, peering down at the heavy slab of wood that had once been the end of Thorin's workbench. "Very kingly, I'm sure."

"Yes, yes," Thorin groaned, and he pulled over what had once been the foot of his anvil, and sat down, placing his head in his hands. "Another regret forged in anger. I have so many, my kurdulu idùzhib. So very many, and what I did to you the most heavy of them all."

Bilbo's voice tutted, and then his breath caught. "Oh. You're not... not dressed for company. Uh."

Thorin looked up between ropy, uncombed strands of hair. "I apologise," he said, low. "I do not mean to distress you, even if you are but my own loneliness. Please, do not leave. Just - please. Do not leave."

Bilbo's eyes softened, and the Hobbit's noiseless feet took a few quick steps towards him. "Now, why would I do a silly thing like that?" he said gently, and smiled.

Thorin let out the breath he had been holding. It felt as though he had been holding it for centuries."Thank you, Master Baggins."

"Pish, it's nothing, you great Dwarven lump," said Bilbo. "Budge over then. There's not a single place to sit and have a pipe in here that you haven't managed to mangle. Thorough job, I must say. Should I be glad you did not arrive with your Company, that fine Spring eve? Would my poor little smial yet be standing?"

Thorin's mouth actually curved upwards in remembrance, though he kept his eyes fixed upon his bare feet. "I caused enough damage that day without using my hands."

"I'll just sit here, I suppose," Bilbo muttered, and then he lifted his eyebrows and aimed his knowing little look at Thorin, his brow wrinkling in that charmingly exasperated way. "Oh cheer up, you're as glum as a wet Foreyule. Even though things may be tremendously terrible and bleak and the sun may never shine again, that's no reason not to pull yourself together, put your best walking-stick in your hand and face the new day. And gracious me, smile a little, would you? You know. Ah - you should really put a tunic on, you're really most distracting."

"I apologise again, Master Baggins," Thorin said, his lips twitching. His heart felt as heavy as lead, but this Bilbo of his heart, this Bilbo of his dreams yet sat beside him. Scolding him, for being gloomy. "I will try."

"Good," Bilbo sniffed.

Then he exclaimed, "Oh, I say! What a remarkable pen!"

* * *

**tbc...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **KHUZDUL**  
>  Sanmelek – Perfect (true/pure) half  
> Ma shândi - I do not understand  
> Idùzhib - diamond  
> Kurdu - heart  
> Khuthûzh - Elves  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Namad - sister  
> Namadith – little sister  
> Nidoy – boy  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother  
> âzyungâlh - lovers  
> Khuzd - Dwarf  
> Khazad - Dwarves/Dwarrows  
> Ikhuzhûrng - (the) A pause (measuring unit)  
> Sansûkhul - (of) Perfect (true/pure) sight  
> Thaforabbad – the Grey Mountains (where many Dwarves took refuge directly after the fall of Erebor)
> 
> Nienna - The weeping Vala. One of the Ainur and Queens of the Valar. She lives in the far west of Aman, and grieves for the suffering of the world. However, she does not weep for herself, and all who listen to her learn pity and endurance in hope. From her, the Maia who would become Gandalf the Grey (Olórin) learned great compassion. She also comforts the spirits of the dead. She is the sister of Námo (Mandos) and Irmo (Lórien). She is the only female Vala who is not married.
> 
> Foreyule - A month in the Shire-reckoning calendar: the month before the winter festival of Yule, and the final month of the year.
> 
> The Song of Eä - the music made by the Ainur before the universe was made. The music was then endowed with existence, and was transmuted and transformed into the world by Eru Ilúvatar. All the themes that occurred within that great song will play out as the history of the world - all, including the discord of Melkor.
> 
> Varda - Queen of the Stars, one of the Ainur and foremost amongst the Queens of the Valar. She is married to Manwë and is best beloved of all Elves, who name her _Elbereth,_ particularly the Silvan Elves.
> 
> Isil - the Moon ("The Sheen"). This vessel is made from the last surviving flower of Telperion, one of the Two Trees of prehistory that filled the whole of the world with their light. The Trees, greatest of the creations of Yavanna, were destroyed by Melkor/Morgoth in his jealousy and then devoured by Ungoliant, the first of the giant spider-creatures. The Moon-vessel is drawn by the Maia Tilion. Isil is revered by the Elves both because Telperion was the elder Tree (the other, Laurelin, gave one last fruit that would become Anar, the Sun vessel) and because the Moon rose first. Minas Ithil (now Minas Morgul) and Minas Anor (now Minas Tirith) were named after them: the towers of the Moon and the Sun. 
> 
> _Contains some dialogue from the chapter, "The Road to Isengard"._
> 
> * * *
> 
>  _Thank you so very, very much! I am so humbled and awed at all the new readers and the amazing response to this, you all make me very sniffly and smiley and flaily!_  
>     
>  _(And an additional thank you to those who sent their congrats - we are pretty danged stoked to be building a Dwarfling :DDD )_
> 
> _Now a couple of comics!_
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _ELVES! (And Brothers), by_[thisly](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73261906054/twits-i-got-this-idea-from-sansukh-but-really).  
>  Click [here](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73261906054/twits-i-got-this-idea-from-sansukh-but-really) for the rest!  
> 
> 
> AAAAAAND
> 
> [](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73419735879/coughs-is-it-getting-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-me)  
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   _The Forest of "Well This is Awkward", by_[thisly](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73419735879/coughs-is-it-getting-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-me).  
>  Click [here](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73419735879/coughs-is-it-getting-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-me) for the rest!  
> 


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Chapter chapter chapter! 
> 
> (ALSO I WROTE ANOTHER SIDE-FIC FOR THE APPENDICES)
> 
> (IT IS **[HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1135533)** )
> 
> **  
> **  
> Art and Artiness  
>   
>  _There is seriously so much this update, everyone, I am trying not to blubber. You are all so wonderful and lovely._
> 
> As always, the [Sansûkh Master-Post](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost) can be found on my tumblr :)
> 
> \- Jeza-Red ~~SPACE WIZARD OF GODDESSNESS~~ has drawn [Thorin's breakdown from Chapter Twenty-Seven](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/73276249965/so-the-latest-chapter-of-snasukh-hit-pretty) (MY HEART), and [Thorin and Frerin: a moment between brothers](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/73688327402/ok-miserable-thorin-is-in-this-year-this) and OH. Two words: _size difference_. *wibbles* .... and also! Gaze upon the tsunami of style, regality and disapproval that is [Hrera, Queen of Erebor!](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/74909185791/finally-a-full-body-version-of-hrera-thrors). 
> 
> \- thisly has drawn Legolas and Gimli (and Thorin) starring in, [The Forest of Well This is Awkward](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73419735879/coughs-is-it-getting-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-me), and The Line of ~~Dumbs~~ Durin in [ELVES!!!](http://thisly.tumblr.com/post/73261906054/twits-i-got-this-idea-from-sansukh-but-really) *snicker* Thisly is awesome and this is hilarious :)
> 
> \- remyblue has drawn [Baris and Bomfris](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/74693933627/baris-and-bomfris-chapter-27-of-sansukh), sistering it up from Chapter Twenty-Seven! PLUS - she has also drawn [bby!Gimli](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/74693908538/gimli-from-determamfidds-fic-follow-the-leader) from the new side-fic, "Follow the Leader". So. Cute. 
> 
> \- Godofmischieffoal has made dolls of _every. Single. Dwarrowdam._ Masterpost is [here GO LOOK NOW NOW NOW](http://godofmischieffoal.tumblr.com/post/74725352688/all-the-dwarrowdams-my-entire-collections-of%22)
> 
> \- aintnosocrates has made a book cover for Sansûkh!!! *faints, revives, looks - and faints again* [It is beautiful beautiful beautiful](http://aintnosocrates.tumblr.com/post/74433074262/the-whole-set-i-had-so-much-fun-doing-these)
> 
> \- deformedglobule has made a playlist from our shared headcanons on Dwarf music! It is _awesome_ and thoroughly epic and GDI YES DWARVES OKAY. [It is here!](http://deformed-globule.tumblr.com/post/73980843067/dwarf-music-playlist)
> 
> \- notanightlight (delight of my life) has created this marvellous, hilarious thing - the Sansûkh Recovery Ward Series: [Victim 1](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73271995357/breaking-news-from-the-sansukh-recovery-ward-a), [Victim 2](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73276618655/live-interview-from-the-sansukh-recovery-ward), [Victim 3](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73280010684/live-from-the-sansukh-recovery-ward), [Victim 4](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73348936404/this-just-in-from-the-sansukh-recovery-ward), [Victim 5](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73353793788/no-end-in-sight-at-the-sansukh-recovery-ward), [Victim 6](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73357739946/reports-flying-in-from-the-sansukh-recovery-ward), [Bonus Evil Dets](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/73572864653/secret-evil-dets-in-color-because-our-lovely)
> 
>  **A PSA FOR ARTISTS HEY ARTISTS YOU AMAZING FOLKS**  
>  I would like to know how you feel about your art being embedded in the story here on AO3? There has been so much amazing work done for this sprawling monster of a thing, and I simply cannot believe how talented and beautiful it all is. Truly. I would love to share it with everyone a million times over. If the image used here was in fact a link to your tumblr post and/or image hosting site, would that be of interest to you? Every image used would also have your usename/artist name underneath. [Please tell me what you think of the idea! ](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/) xxx Dets
> 
> okay I'm done rambling, on with fic!

It was galling to admit it, but occasionally Thorin had to concede that his brother was cleverer than he was.

The next morning had broken and even before Thorin could line up his thoughts, Frerin had been there with bright eyes and challenging expression. In his hands was the latest of poor Ori's schedules, with crossings-out and corrections and scribbles and blotches of ink all over it. New crossings-out indicated that changes had only recently been made, and the stabbing motion of the words indicated that Ori had not done so graciously.

He gave Thorin no chance to dwell upon his recent shock, nor his behaviour over the last day or so. "Up you get, nadadel," he said, and Thorin snarled at him – and obeyed. His anger had nearly run its course, and only a dull echoing emptiness was left behind. The teetering wall of his faults loomed over him, but Frerin refused to let him lie there and wait for the inevitable avalanche. He kept up a steady stream of nonsense talk, even as Thorin dressed and washed his face.

Then he held open the door and jerked his chin, his braids swinging. "After you."

Thorin scowled, but stalked from his rooms nonetheless.

At the Chamber of Sansûkhul, Thorin was greeted by Frís, Balin, and his nephews. He sent a suspicious glance back at Frerin, who only shook the tattered schedule cheerfully in answer.

"That's who is rostered, nadad," he said, innocence radiating from every pore.

Thorin snorted. No doubt Frerin had wheedled and badgered and hung all over poor Ori until he had changed the schedule to Frerin's satisfaction, surrounding Thorin with so many of his nearest and dearest: with those who gave him strength. "Oh, I have no doubt."

Frís smoothed down his tunic absently. "Have you eaten?" she asked, and Thorin gave her a long, flat look.

Fíli screwed up his face. "That's a no, and he doesn't much care either."

"I brought bread and cheese," Kíli said, digging through his pockets.

"Can you bring food into the star-pool?" said Balin, taken aback.

"I don't know," Kíli said, shrugging and continuing to hunt. "It's in the nature of an experiment."

"You won't catch anyone eating anything that's been living in your pockets, trollbrain," Fíli grinned, nudging his brother. "That would be a far more hazardous experiment."

Kíli scowled and elbowed Fíli in return. Before they could begin a scuffle, Thorin cleared his throat sharply and said, "I am not hungry. If we are assembled?"

"You will eat when we break for a rest, my dear one," Frís said in a low voice as they moved to their places around Gimlîn-zâram, her hand grasping for his and squeezing. "I trust you, but I worry. Please."

He let out a soundless sigh, and nodded once.

She smiled, though there was no joy in it. "Good. Thank you. You make me proud, my inùdoy. This too shall pass, as all things pass."

"If my life and death have taught me anything, 'amad," Thorin said quietly, starlight reflecting from his face and shining in his hair and eyes, "it is that nothing is forever."

Her hand clamped down upon his tightly, and then the stars of Gimlîn-zâram swallowed them whole.

"Trees," he heard Balin say, somewhat confused. "More trees. What is all this? What has happened?"

Thorin was too busy blinking the blinding radiance from his eyes to answer. Shapes and shadows had been etched onto the underside of his eyelids, and the smells of Middle-Earth assaulted him all at once. "Horses, loam, granite, sandstone, obsidian, water, ashes, iron – poor quality iron, heated with green logs," he muttered, and steadied himself as his eyes adjusted. "Where are we?"

"Isengard, I suspect, laddie," said Balin, and Thorin felt his cousin's hand touch him on the shoulder reassuringly as he moved past him. "Well, bless my beard! I see why young Ori was so worked up now. What a mess!"

Thorin squinted. He could see little as yet, but he knew the reflection of light upon water. Early morning sunshine glanced off a large body of water, gilding the ripples and sending flares of gold into the air. "But Isengard has no lake."

Fíli's laugh was a little high and shrill. "It does now."

Thorin blinked some more, and then he sucked in a breath.

They were standing beside a great pillar, shaped like a forbidding White Hand. Close below them spread out the valley of Isengard, just as Thorin had heard it described in his books when he was a child. A vast stone circle tucked against the southernmost reaches of the Misty Mountains, guarding the pass between Dunland and Rohan. A great tower of blackest obsidian reached to the sky from the centre of the valley, rising up from a small isle in the middle of the circle, all enclosed by high walls of stone.

It was full of _water._

"What has happened?" he demanded, but no-one answered. Thorin glanced up to see the King and Gandalf pausing by the statue of the Hand, also looking down upon the wreck of Isengard. Behind them stood their small host of Rohirrim, including Éomer and Aragorn upon their horses. Had the sea in all its fury dashed itself against the hills, it could have worked no greater ruin. "Gandalf! What has happened here?"

"The Hand is no longer white," murmured Legolas from behind Thorin, and he whirled to see the Elf perched upon Arod with Gimli, as always, tucked against his back. "Gimli, mellon, do you see?"

Gimli grunted. "I see it. Well, that augurs ill for Saruman, doesn't it?"

Legolas smiled to himself and led Arod onwards behind the Wizard and Théoden-King, the grey horse carefully picking his way hoof-by-hoof amongst the trees that crowded close. "Indeed it does."

Thorin glowered at the Elf until he caught Frerin's eye, and then he tore his gaze away to look back at the flooded valley.

Aragorn raised his hand and stopped their advance. "Hold here," he said quietly. "The doors are cracked and splintered, and there may be peril ahead. Woods have long memories, and their anger does not cool quickly. We should not enter lest we be caught up in their rage."

"Ori was _very_ distraught," Balin whispered, and Thorin made a gruff noise of assent beneath his breath.

"Ents," mused Frís to herself, tapping at her lip. "Ents..."

"I am told they are the children of Yavanna, just as we are the children of Mahal," Balin said to her with a deferential tip of his head. Then he smiled faintly. "Made to protect the green and voiceless things that grow against wood-hungry creatures such as ourselves. I heard tell once that they were created purely because _Dwarves_ were: because we use so much wood in our crafts and our forges. And so the Danukinh pleaded for protectors for her creations. Thus the Ents came to be."

Balin always knew the old stories, Thorin thought, looking out over the devastation of Isengard. The Danukinh, the Green Lady. Thorin repressed a shiver. "Deep roots are stronger than stone," he murmured to himself, and pressed his heels into the ground as far as he could.

"Wait," said Gimli abruptly, and then his hand took hold of Legolas' shoulder, the wide fingers nearly engulfing it. "Look! There upon the wall!"

Thorin turned, eyes darting, half expecting to see one of these great and vengeful children of the Lady of the Olvar... and spied two tiny figures lying amongst the shattered stones atop the wall, perfectly at ease, plates and bottles scattered haphazardly around them. One tipped back his head lazily, and sent a pretty blue ring of smoke soaring into the air.

"No!" Frerin said, grasping at Thorin's arm, staring at them with excitement building in his eyes. "No!"

"Elbereth Gilthoniel," Legolas breathed aloud, his whole face alight with gladness. Gimli seemed ready to explode into shouting, only he could not decide upon which word.

At that moment, the smoking figure blinked and stood atop the wall, his little grey cloak flaring behind him. He held out a hand to steady himself as he bowed very low in as stately a manner as a tipsy Hobbit possibly could. Then he threw his head back and announced, "welcome, my Lords, to Isengard! We are the doorwardens."

Gimli made a loud and _very_ strangled noise in his throat. Legolas' eyes were dancing with laughter, and Aragorn was, for once, grinning broadly. The expression seemed almost alien upon his face.

"Meriadoc son of Saradoc is my name; and my companion, who – alas! is overcome with weariness," - and here he gave his supine friend a dig with his foot – "is Peregrin son of Paladin, of the house of Took. The Lord Saruman is within; but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to greet such honoured guests."

Gandalf leaned back, smiling and shaking his head. " _Hobbits."_

"At any rate, he is much occupied, and so our orders came from Treebeard," Merry continued with grave dignity, swaying a little upon his curly feet. "He has taken over management of Isengard. He commanded me to greet the Lord of Rohan with fitting words. I have done my best."

"And what of your companions!" Gimli burst out, no longer able to contain himself. "What about Legolas and me! You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us – through battle and blood, fire and fen, two hundred leagues without food nor rest, all to rescue you! And here we find you idling and feasting – and smoking! Hammer and tongs, if I do not burst it will be a marvel!"

"The salted pork is particularly good," Pippin interjected, opening one eye.

"Salted pork," Gimli repeated dumbly, and then he groaned and leaned his head against Legolas' back. "Mahal save us!"

"You speak for me, Gimli," said Legolas, a laugh caught in his voice. "Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine."

"One thing you have not found in all your hunting, and that's sharper wits," Pippin said with a little sniff. "Here you find us sitting upon a field of victory, and you wonder how we came by a few well-earned comforts!"

"WELL-EARNED –" Gimli began, his face beginning to turn the colour of his hair.

Pippin lifted his mug in a lazy salute. Legolas' laughter finally rang out across the watery valley, and Gimli made a noise of utter outrage and began to struggle upon Arod's back.

"Get me off this thing: I am going to embrace them both, and then I am going to _kill_ them," he growled, and Legolas shook his head, helpless and paralysed with laughter.

"Calm yourself, Gimli," he managed between gasps. "They are well – Nan aear adh in elin, they are alive and well!"

"Not for long!" Gimli muttered, sliding down off the horse's high back with a heavy thud of his Dwarf-boots. "Get yourselves down here at once, you little knaves, you rogues - you pair of wing-footed mischief-makers, you!"

"It cannot be doubted that we witness the meetings of dear friends," laughed Théoden. "So these are the lost ones of your company, Gandalf! Marvels walking straight from legends! Are these not Halflings, that some amongst us call the Holbytlan?"

"Hobbits, if you please, Lord," said Pippin primly. Merry nodded in grave agreement. His eyes were a little glassy.

"Hobbits?" Théoden said, eyebrows raising. "Hobbits? The word is strangely changed, and the legends do not do justice to the truth. For one thing, they do not report that Hobbits spouted smoke from their mouths."

"Ah!" Merry said solemnly, lifting a finger in a teacherly manner and puffing harder upon his pipe. "Well, _that_ is not surprising. It is an art which we have not practised for more than a few generations. It was Tobold Hornblower, of Longbottom in the Southfarthing, who first grew the true pipe-weed in his gardens... hmm, about the year 1070 by our reckoning, wasn't it Pip?" - and here Pippin nodded owlishly, "now, just _how_ Old Toby came by the plant is a matter of..."

"You do not know your danger, Théoden," Gandalf interrupted, smiling. "These Hobbits will sit on the edge of ruin and discuss the pleasures of the table or the small doings of their great-grandfathers to the ninth degree, if you encourage them! Merry! Where is Treebeard?"

"Oh, away on the north side, I believe," Merry waved a hand. "He went to get a drink of fresher water. Other Ents are guarding the tower. Quickbeam is there, I know."

"We will seek Treebeard," Gandalf said, nodding to the King. "He will have much to tell us."

"I am going _nowhere_ ,not now that they are finally within my sight," Gimli growled, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Aragorn dismounted and clapped a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

"We shall stay here, we Three Hunters," he said, and Gimli glanced up at him and then his lips quirked beneath his moustache. Some of his anxious energy left him, and he deflated a little, his heavy shoulders slumping beneath Aragorn's hand.

"Aye, hunters that have found their quarry at last," he said, sighing and removing his helm. "There had better be some salted pork left, or I shall not be held accountable for my actions."

"There's plenty, but you'd best hurry," Merry told them. "Pippin isn't exactly a slouch with a fork, you know."

Legolas' nose wrinkled the slightest amount, but he met Aragorn's eyes and nodded before leaping down from Arod's back as lightly as a settling feather.

Gandalf nodded to them, and then he began to lead Théoden and his retinue around the great stone walls towards the north edge of the valley.

"So that is the King of Rohan!" Pippin said to Merry in an undertone. "A fine old fellow. Very polite."

After the Hobbits had descended from their perch and after Gimli had embraced them both so tightly that their eyes had quite nearly popped (Thorin had averted his eyes from Legolas' stiff face with a muffled growl), the Three Hunters sat down upon the grass and ate their fill as Merry and Pippin related their story. Much of it Thorin already knew from Ori's reports, but he was again struck by the resourcefulness of Pippin in a pinch. "Throwing away his brooch like that," he said approvingly, and Kíli nodded in agreement.

"Clever, wasn't it?" he said.

"Hobbits tend towards the clever and quiet," said Balin, stroking at his beard and nodding. "Perhaps Bilbo was not so very unlike the rest of his folk."

"Or perhaps Tooks are a breed apart," Thorin said, and ignored the quick, sympathetic glance that Balin sent him.

"Doesn't explain Sam, though," mumbled Kíli, and he tipped his head and sighed longingly as Gimli was presented with Pippin's spare pipe. "Ooooh, Hobbitish pipe-weed! Now _that_ I miss!"

"Shândabi," said Fíli wistfully, watching as Gimli filled the pipe and raised it in salute to Pippin with appreciation before striking it alight with Glóin's old tinder and flint. "I can almost smell it."

Legolas wrinkled his nose. "Come now!" he said, a trifle peevishly. "Time wears on, and the mists are blowing away – or would if you strange folk did not wreathe yourself in smoke."

" _You_ talk to trees," Gimli said placidly, puffing at his borrowed pipe.

"And that is a perfectly natural and understandable thing to do," Legolas said, a touch of his old haughtiness in his face and tone. His eyes slid away from the Dwarf, tightening around the corners as he looked out over the swaying forests.

"Now, now," Aragorn said, exhaustion in every syllable. "Let us not wrangle and chide, now that we have recovered two of our Fellowship. Let us sit upon the edge of ruin and talk. I feel a weariness such as I have seldom felt before."

"Ask Gimli and Legolas to cease bickering?" Merry laughed. "Ask the sun to stop in its orbit, or the tides to halt in the ocean bed, more like!"

"You may be surprised," Balin murmured, and smiled cheerfully in return when Thorin sent one of his blackest glares in his cousin's direction.

"Were we ever to stop, you would wonder if we were truly ourselves," Legolas told them.

Gimli barked a laugh. "Aye, we are only making sure the wee Hobbits know it is truly us, Aragorn," he said, all pretend-innocence.

"Just think upon it," Legolas said, assuming a sorrowful air. "If our doughty Dwarf were to behave as he has been recently in front of their very eyes? Why, they would question his sanity!"

Gimli's snort made the smoke eddy and whirl around his head. "Aye, perhaps all that running can addle a Dwarf's brain after all."

"And what of an Elf's brain? I ran as far and as fast as you – faster, indeed!" Legolas prodded, turning to face Gimli fully. There was no denying the sudden brightness of his expression, the light of laughter leaping in his eyes. Thorin bristled to see it, and hated that the expression upon Legolas' fair face was one he knew he himself had worn upon many a visit to Bag End.

"Ach," Gimli said, shaking his head sadly, "that is already hopelessly addled. Lost cause, laddie. As I mentioned: talks to _trees_. Unfortunate fellow!"

"You may wish to change your opinion on such things, Gimli, once you've met Treebeard," Merry said, laughing. Pippin was giggling into his mug, watching the to-and-fro with bright little eyes.

"It is a good thing that both Ents and Elves have the patience of the Ages," Legolas said, bending closer to Gimli and smiling broadly. His hand hovered above Gimli's broad shoulder for a moment before landing there and clasping tightly. "How else could we change a Dwarf's mind?"

"Ah, but I am an addled Dwarf, remember?" Gimli said, chuckling. "I must be, to suffer your company! Such a mind is surely soft enough to shape as you see fit."

"Would that it were, stubborn Dwarf," Legolas said in nearly a sigh, leaning back. "Would that it were."

"Oh, go discuss the weather with a shrub," Gimli said, prodding at Legolas' hand with one thick finger. "You are quite as stubborn as me, and you know it."

"No, mellon nîn, here I think you are the victor once more," Legolas countered. "No Elf could contest with a Dwarf in this particular arena."

"Truly? Then prove it," Gimli said, and smugly folded his free arm across his barrel chest, tucking the hand into the crook of his elbow. "Aha! Now if you should refuse to meet my challenge, then you are only proving yourself equally stubborn in another manner. What say you?"

Legolas opened his mouth, and then closed it with a _snap_!

"Neatly caught!" Merry said, clapping in delight, and Pippin was laughing openly.

"Now you must admit that we are matched in this," Gimli said, pointing his pipe-stem over at the Elf. "Go on!"

"You do realise that you are stubbornly insisting that I admit to being as stubborn as you," Legolas said dryly.

"Aye, and as you say, I was the victor of our last contest and so shall I win this one too," Gimli said with a toss of his ruddy braids. "And Dwarves have their own patience. I can wait for your answer."

"But you cannot wait so long as an Elf," Legolas countered. A flash of pain passed over his bright face, dimming his smile.

"Must you compete upon _everything?"_ Aragorn groaned.

"Naturally," Legolas said lightly, taking his hand away from Gimli's shoulder and sending an obscurely pained look back at the Man. "How else are we to communicate?"

Aragorn shook his shaggy head, his own wry smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back, stretching his long legs out before him, his grey cloak wrapped about him and adding to the mystery of his smoke-wreathed face. "If it came to a contest of irritating your companion, I find that you are perfectly matched."

"Look!" said Pippin, nudging Merry. "Strider the Ranger has come back!"

"He has never been away," said Aragorn quietly, his eyes sliding shut. "I am Strider and Dunadan too, and I belong both to Gondor and the North."

 _That_ was surprising. Thorin took two short steps to peer down at the supine Man, frowning into the worn, weatherbeaten face. Aragorn seemed at peace here, surrounded by the wreckage of Isengard. The heavy lines of care smoothed out as a thin stream of smoke escaped his lips. "Both Gondor and the North may be your inheritance," he murmured, crouching down before the Man, "but I warn you, Aragorn Arathorn's son of the line of Elendil, an inheritance is a slippery fish to catch, and you have your rod cast for two. You may find that one, at least, escapes your nets. Arnor is a dead Kingdom, and Gondor lies under a pall of shadow. Yet you belong to them, you say. Aye, but keep something of yourself for yourself, for they will take everything you are and everything you have and hollow you out before they are done, and yet still demand more."

Gimli blinked, straightening and then his eyes darted to Legolas. The Elf's lips parted slightly, and his eyebrows lifted in enquiry. Gimli gave a barely-perceptible nod, and then his free hand moved in the familiar Iglishmêk patterns: _Idmi, melekhel._

"Greetings, Gimli," Thorin replied a little stiffly, keenly aware of the Elf's immediate attention to Gimli's slight startlement and his perfect understanding of what had provoked it.

"I wonder what Gandalf is doing?" Merry said, frowning as he glanced between the Elf and Dwarf. A suspicion was dawning in his shrewd little face. "The afternoon is getting on. Let us go and look round! You can enter Isengard now at any rate, Strider, if you want to. But it is not a very cheerful sight."

"Ents," Frís mused as the small party stood and stretched after their impromptu meal, tapping out pipes (Gimli and Aragorn) and finishing off the remnants of tankards (Merry and Pippin). There was a ruined tunnel ahead and Legolas led the way upon light feet. "Such a ruin in such a short time. No wonder they were created to be the answer to Dwarrows, if they have the strength to tear stone in half like so much _cram_."

"Be careful!" Merry warned. "There are loose slabs everywhere. They may tilt up and throw you into a pit if you are not wary!"

Legolas nodded, and then he called out in his liquid tongue. Arod's head lifted where he grazed some distance away, and the grey horse whickered and trotted forward to him obediently.

"Hello again, beastie," Gimli said with some resignation. Then he looked up at Legolas. "I have not even been on my own feet for an hour, and you want me back up on that thing?"

"To be frank, you would do better on a horse, Gimli," Pippin said. "No Dwarf or Hobbit would be able to stand the waters anyway. They're far above our heads!"

Gimli scowled. "That wouldn't daunt me. I can swim in full armour, should there be a need."

"I do not doubt it, but here you may ride and stay dry," Legolas said, and Arod snuffled over the Dwarf's shoulder. Gimli sighed and patted awkwardly at the horse's velvet nose.

"All right. Don't think I'm going soft towards the dratted creature!"

"I would not dare," Legolas said solemnly, springing lithely into the saddle and reaching down towards Gimli with one hand. Gimli muttered under his breath in Khuzdul for a moment (which turned Balin's face nearly as white as his beard) and let Legolas hoist him up.

There was little left of the road when the riders moved through the tunnel into the crumbling circle of Isengard. Merry and Pippin clung to Aragorn as he moved Brego forward, taking the lead. Steaming pools hissed around them, reeking of foul things. There were the shapes of riders in the middle distance. Dotted sparsely around them were the still dark shapes of trees, their leaves rustling in the breeze.

"Some great foul smithing took place here," Gimli muttered, and his hand tightened upon the haft of his axe. "Smell that! They have made a mockery of the art."

"How can you tell?" asked Legolas, his face intrigued. He glanced over the flat watery plain, his eyes very piercing. "All such works smell the same to me."

"You do not know what to heed, so I forgive you those words," Gimli growled. "Base metals were tortured here, with little care for their true worth. The ore was not made clean, the fires were not kept well, and moreover they were fed with green branches and logs. Heated unevenly, warped and twisted, cast in haste and cooled over-quickly. I remember the steel of the Uruk-Hai was as dark and brittle as coal, and no time nor thought was given to its shaping but for a filing of the sharpest edge. Now the other half of that riddle appears. This is no true forge. A forge is where skill and art and function may combine to make a thing both useful and beautiful. This is a machine for death."

" _Gimli!"_ Balin half-gasped, half-groaned. Then he put his head in his hands as Fíli patted his back sympathetically.

"Get used to it, he's gotten worse," he said.

The distant riders resolved into the shapes of Gandalf, Théoden-King, Éomer and the Éored as they neared, and Gandalf nodded to them before turning to look up at the sinister, glowering tower of Orthanc. "I was about to send for you," he said quietly to Aragorn. "Have you rested and renewed your bonds of Fellowship?"

"We listened to an Elf and a Dwarf bicker and tussle with words," Aragorn said as Éomer took Merry upon Firefoot, his horse. "So: nothing unusual. But yes, I have rested. What now?"

"I have spoken to Treebeard, and learned much, and made a few plans. Now I have one last task to do before we may depart, and not a pleasant one: I must speak to Saruman. Dangerous, and probably useless, but it must be done."

"What's the danger" asked Pippin. "Will he shoot at us or pour fire out of the windows; or can he put a spell upon us from a distance?"

"The last is the most likely," Gandalf said grimly. "Beware of his voice!"

"Treebeard?" Legolas said, a note of eagerness in his voice. "You have spoken to him?"

And then the most _extraordinary_ being stepped forward from the shadow of Orthanc, and Thorin swore loudly and reached for a non-existent sword. "Durin's blood and bones!" croaked Fíli, and Kíli was simply gawking up – and up – and _up._ "That's an Ent?!"

Thorin's heart was beating at double-speed as he whirled about, staring at the motionless figures dotted about the circle of the valley. What he had taken for nothing more than trees were in fact Ents: unmoving and watchful and huge beyond anything he had ever imagined. "Nothing so large can be living," he croaked. "They... they have us surrounded."

"They are our allies," Frís said, but her voice shook nonetheless. "Our allies: they fight against the Uruks and upon the side of Men and Elves and Dwarves."

"They're bloody _enormous!"_ Kíli squeaked.

"Yes, they are," she agreed faintly, patting his hand a shade too rapidly to be comforting, her blue eyes very wide.

Frerin had pressed himself very close to Thorin's side. "Different types of trees," he said in a hoarse voice. "Do you see? There is a fir tree, and a beech, and a rowan and a willow..."

Thorin did not trust himself to answer, instead taking both Frerin's and Fíli's shoulders in his hands and holding tightly.

"Created to guard against Dwarves, wasn't it?" Fíli asked Balin, who nodded dumbly.

"That'd do it," Kíli said, and swallowed. "Trees that fight back."

"And can rip a Dwarf in half, what's more," Fíli added.

"You can stop there," Frerin mumbled. "I don't need to know anything more about them. Ever."

Gimli's face had paled beneath his fine beard when the great Ent had stepped forward, but he kept his head and did not call out or say anything foolish. Legolas seemed to sense his friend's discomfort and reached back to touch Gimli's shin with the tips of his fingers. "Peace, mellon nîn," he murmured. "You tense up like a rabbit in the presence of a stoat. Do not be nervous."

"Nervous, who's nervous?" Gimli whispered back, and he lightly tapped at Legolas' hand. "Get off: I'm _fine."_

Legolas' lips tilted upwards. "You always are, my dearest friend. I do not doubt it."

"Young Master Gandalf," the Ent boomed, and Thorin was surprised at how slowly he spoke: like great rolling rivers or the deliberate creaking of wood stretching into the sky. "Wood and water, stock and stone I can master, but there is a Wizard to manage here."

Gandalf bent his head respectfully to Treebeard, before staring up at the roof of Orthanc. "Yes, from atop that tower," Thorin heard him murmur sadly. Then he drew himself tall in the saddle, his white head glowing in the sunlight. "Saruman!" he called in a great voice. "Saruman, come forth!"

For some time there was no answer. Then a voice called back, "who is it? What do you wish?"

Théoden started. "I know that voice," he said through gritted teeth. "And I curse the day when I first listened to it."

Éomer sent his uncle a quick, searching glance, but Théoden lifted a hand. "Nay, sister-son," he said, his chin lifting. "I am well enough. Content yourself!"

"I am content if my Lord is," Éomer returned.

Théoden gave him a sidelong look, and his lips were upturned despite his grim demeanour. "I find myself in far better company these days."

Éomer's back straightened, and when he turned his eyes back to the tower there was a pride in his face and in the carriage of his helm that had long been absent.

"Go and fetch Saruman, since you have become his footman, Gríma Wormtongue!" Gandalf was saying sternly. "And do not waste our time!"

"Hoom, hum!" Treebeard said, his knotty brows drawing together. "Is your business with the Wizard so very pressing, then? Do not be hasty, young master Gandalf. A little time –a decade or two, methinks – would do both Saruman and his doorman good."

"It is not to my liking, but yes, time grows ever shorter," Gandalf said, his grip tightening upon his staff. "Saruman is only a dupe, a puppet of a far greater darkness. Still, he was once most powerful and perceptive, his mind marvellously subtle and his thoughts skilled beyond compare. He was deep in the plans of the Enemy. We need him to _talk_."

Treebeard straightened with a gruff, " _Hrum, burarum!_ "

"That's just his way," Merry whispered when he noticed Gimli's pale cheeks. "Don't pay it any mind. He scared the hair straight off my feet when we met: thought we were Orcs, you know. But once we persuaded him not to kill us he was perfectly friendly."

"Master Merry," Gimli said, wetting his lips with his tongue, "you are not a comfort."

Legolas hid a smile.

Then there was a flash of something pale atop the tower, and Thorin craned backwards to look up at the knifelike peaks framed against scudding grey clouds. There stood a Man, or a Manlike form at least, clad in dirty robes that flashed white one moment and every colour imaginable the next. He squinted. The bearded face was similar to Gandalf's in that an unfathomable power rested in his eyes and upon the lined and aged brow, but strands of black showed at ears and lips and there was a cruelty in Saruman's mouth that was absent from Gandalf's.

"So you are not so singular, my friend," he murmured, and Gandalf looked down at him for a moment with an unguarded expression. There was rage there, and hurt at an unlooked-for betrayal, and sorrow so deep that mountains could not contain it.

"No, I once was not. There were five, and now there are two. Time, distance and madness have stolen the rest," he said quietly, before determination stole the openness from his face. The eyes became distant: kindly and yet calculating. Once more he appeared as Gandalf, not as the spirit that Gandalf had once been. Here was the Wizard who cared for his chess pieces, and yet moved them into battle nonetheless.

"Time, distance and madness," Thorin repeated, black humour edging every word. "You have my sincere sympathies, Wizard."

Gandalf's answering smile was pained. Frerin stood on Thorin's booted foot as heavily as he could. Thorin ignored him.

"Well?" said Saruman wearily, and his voice was smooth and kindly and melodious. Everyone stood still at the sound, as though ensorcelled. His dark eyes flitted between each figure below, taking them in, assessing them with flat reptilian cunning. The look was in direct contrast to the wise and reasonable tone of the voice and the carefully benevolent expression upon the hard-carved old face. "Well? Why must you disturb my rest?"

Thorin stood his ground as Saruman's eyes flicked to him and then narrowed. He had been expecting this after his experience with the Ring. "Hold fast," he murmured as Frerin shifted uneasily and Balin's breath caught. "He cannot harm us – nothing can. We but watch. We bear witness."

Saruman's eyes widened once more, but he said nothing to answer this. Instead, he turned back to the King of Rohan. "Come now, two of you I at least know by name," he said softly, gently. "Gandalf I know too well to have much hope that he seeks help or counsel here. But you, Théoden, Lord of the Mark, are declared to me by your noble devices and by the fair features of the House of Eorl. Why have you not come before, and as a friend?"

Théoden stirred, and his eyes grew distant and shadowed.

"Ah, zuznel," Gimli groaned. "My beloved Lord, do you mark his face? The spell lies upon him still. He will go up, they will make peace, and Saruman will gain where he had all but lost."

Saruman's marvellous voice lowered to a whisper, wheedling and coaxing. So wise it seemed, and so very right. Thorin shook his head to clear it. "Is it yet too late? Despite the injuries that have been done to me, in which the men of Rohan, alas! have had some part, still I would save you, and deliver you from the ruin that draws nigh inevitably, if you ride upon this road which you have taken. Indeed I alone can aid you now."

Then Gimli broke in suddenly, his Dwarven voice loud and rough after the silkiness of the Wizard's entreaty. "The words of this wizard stand on their heads," he growled, gripping the handle of his axe. "In the language of Orthanc help means ruin, and saving means slaying, that is plain. But we do not come here to beg."

"I do not speak to you, Dwarf," Saruman said, and for a moment his voice was less suave. His harsh gaze flickered from Gimli to the dead Dwarves, to Gimli again, and then his tone softened once more, purring in satisfaction. "Far away is your home, and small concern of yours are the happenings of this unhappy land. I speak to Théoden of Rohan, my neighbour and once my friend.

"You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden-King, and made peace afterwards. Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?" Saruman said, and he reached out with a long-fingered hand, pale as dripping wax.

There was total silence.

"We will have peace," Théoden said in a thick voice, and several of his Riders cried out in gladness. Then Théoden's eyes flashed with fury. "Yes, we shall have peace when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows, _then_ we shall have peace."

The voice of the King was coarse as burlap after Saruman's sweet coaxing, but the effect was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over the listeners. Most of the Riders straightened as though emerging from a dream, and then outrage entered their faces as they realised how close they had come to being snared in Saruman's nets. "So much for the House of Eorl," Théoden said roughly. "A lesser son of great sires am I, but I do not need to lick your fingers. Turn elsewhither."

"Look at Saruman!" said Frís in a sharp tone, and Thorin turned back up to the Wizard to see his face darkening in rage. The light in his eyes kindled to a great wrath, and for a moment he seemed like a great snake about to strike.

"Gibbets and crows!" he hissed, and they shuddered at the hideous change. "Dotard! What is the House of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs? Too long have they escaped the gibbet themselves. But the noose comes, slow in the drawing, tight and hard in the end. Hang if you will!"

Then he slowly drew himself upright again, his white hair disordered in the wind. The curl of his mouth was full of distaste. "I know not why I have had the patience to speak to you. For I need you not, nor your little band of gallopers, as swift to fly as to advance, Théoden _Horsemaster_."

"What a pleasant fellow," said Frerin faintly. Thorin snorted silently, and drew his brother close.

"Remember, he cannot harm us," he said once more.

"Who knows what a Wizard may do?" said Balin, his brows drawn tight and his lips a thin white line.

Gandalf's hand raised in the air, and then his dusty old voice rang out, clear as a cracking whip. "Your treachery has already cost many lives. Thousands more are now at risk. But you could save them Saruman. You were deep in the enemy's counsel."

"And what do you want, Gandalf Greyhame?" Saruman said, and now he was cold and haughty. "Let me guess… the key of Orthanc? Or perhaps the keys of Barad-Dûr itself? Along with the crowns of the seven Kings and the rods of the Five Wizards and a pair of boots many sizes larger than those that you wear now! A modest plan. Hardly one in which my help is needed. I have other things to do. If you wish to treat with me, while you have a chance, go away, and come back when you are sober! And leave behind these cut-throats and small rag-tag that dangle at your tail! Good day!' He turned and made to leave the balcony.

"Saruman," Gandalf said, and there was a new power in his voice that put the spell of Saruman's to shame. "I did not give you leave to go."

Saruman froze where he stood, and then slowly, reluctantly, he dragged himself back to the edge of the high tower. Fear now shone in his face.

"You have become a fool, Saruman, and yet pitiable. You might still have turned away from folly and evil, and have been of service," Gandalf said, and a hint of that hidden sorrow crossed his expression.

"You seek information?" Saruman said, animal cunning setting his eyes alight. "I have some for you."

He held aloft a large glass ball, dark as a stormy winter's night. A fire seemed to flicker in its depths. "Something festers in the heart of Middle Earth. Something that you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it! Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon. You are all going to die! But you know this don't you Gandalf?" Saruman laughed cruelly, and then he spat, "you cannot think that this _Ranger_ will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile crept from the shadows will _never_ be crowned King."

Thorin's throat closed in sudden, painful remembrance, the memories so close and vivid they were nearly drowning him. He was faintly aware that he staggered to one side. _He has the right. He has the only right._

Saruman's gaze fixed upon Thorin, and then his eyes widened in recognition before they narrowed in catlike satisfaction. Malice dripped from him as he went on, his mouth twisted into a cold snarling smile. "Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those who are closest to him: those he professes to _love_. Tell me, what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom?"

Distantly he could feel his nephews crowding close, feel the warmth of their breath against his face and smell his mother's hair in his nostrils. He held himself still, his heart clenching.

_No. Bilbo is safe. Safe in Rivendell._

_Frodo._

_He speaks of Frodo._

_Gandalf has ever been a friend to Dwarrows and Hobbits alike._

_He was quick enough to use our vengeance for his own ends._

_Cease this! Old bones should lie buried!_

_Frodo. Where is Frodo now?_

Saruman's voice hissed and sneered like the Dragon's. "The path that you have set him on can only lead to death."

Aragorn's eyelids lowered, and Thorin's hands fisted by his sides. Dimly he knew Fíli's hands were wrapped around his right fist, and that Frerin had flung his arm around his waist as far as it would reach. Balin was speaking, wise words of comfort as always, and Frís was carding her fingers through his beard. "Come back," she said gently. "Thorin, my son. Come back."

He took a breath that stuttered and dragged as it made its way into his lungs. "I am well enough," he said, his voice rasping.

"You are a great big hairy mess, don't lie," Frerin said bluntly. "Are you all right now?"

"Are you?" Thorin retorted. He hated how raw he sounded.

"Are any of us?" muttered Balin, before he looked up again. " _Wizards_."

"I second that," Kíli said, wiping at his brow.

"I've heard enough," Gimli said, his teeth snapping at the words. There was anger and worry in his face, and Thorin wondered how much he had heard. "Shoot him! Stick an arrow in his gob!"

Legolas began to reach for his quiver, but Gandalf sent both him and Thorin a warning glance. "No! Come down, Saruman – come down, and your life will be spared!"

"Save your pity and your mercy!" Saruman sneered. "I have no use for it! Very much in the manner of Gandalf the Grey: so condescending, and so very kind. I do not doubt that you would find Orthanc commodious, and my departure convenient!"

"Stay then!" Gandalf said, and a terrible rage shook his voice, shadows gathering around him and making him appear many times taller than he was. Thorin stared, remembering the day he had seen this before.

"Are they going to fight?" whispered Kíli. "Because I don't want to see a fight between Wizards. Ents are quite bad enough."

"Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no colour now, and I cast you from the order and from the Council," thundered Gandalf, and Saruman quailed before his suddenly-revealed might.

Gandalf raised his hand and spoke in a clear, cold voice. "Saruman, your staff is broken."

In his long-fingered, talon-tipped hand, the long black staff suddenly snapped with a loud _crack!_ before crumbling away into smoke. Saruman staggered back in horror, and disappeared from atop the tower.

Not seconds later, a heavy black shining thing came hurtling from the tower to splash near to Shadowfax's hooves. Pippin slid down from Brego and ran after it to pick it up. He frowned as he drew it out of the water: the crystal globe that Saruman had brandished before, dark but glowing with a heart of fire.

"The murderous rogue," Éomer snarled, but Gandalf shook his head.

"A parting shot from Master Wormtongue, I fancy," he said. "It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away."

"What is it?" Pippin said, peering at it with fascination.

"Here, my lad, I'll take that!" Gandalf said, leaning down and scooping the globe from his hands and wrapping it in a fold of his robe.

"Do you suppose that is the end of it?" Merry wondered. Pippin looked confused, staring at his hands as though he had never seen them before. He blinked when Aragorn lifted him neatly back into Brego's saddle, and sighed out his breath in one slow stream.

"It is the end," Gandalf said heavily.

"Well, let us get out of stone's throw, at least!" Gimli remarked, and Legolas' face, which had been cool and impassive in the manner of an Elf under threat, softened.

"Let us go, yes," Gandalf said, and the obscure sorrow was again alive in his eyes. He turned Shadowfax slowly, and led the slow careful progression across the wreckage-strewn circle back to the tunnel.

Thorin sagged, and Frís carefully kissed the lower part of his jaw.

"Do those troublesome old memories snap at your heels again like so many barking dogs?" she said softly.

"They bark very loudly at times," Thorin said, dredging up a wry smile from somewhere for his mother.

"That is the nature of a neglected dog," she said, and smoothed flat the ruffled hair upon his cheek, "Zabadâl belkul, Thorin. We love you. We are here. No matter how wildly they howl, remember that they are not nearly as persistent as we are."

"I will endeavour," he said, and bent his head so that Frís could tuck a strand of his hair back into the rough queue he had combed it into. "Thank you."

"One good thing about being dead," Frerin said as they began to pick their way across the watery valley after the Éored and their companions, "I can wade through all of this fully clothed, and not get the slightest bit wet."

"Ah, nadad," Thorin said, and to his surprise his laugh was low and genuine and not forced as it once would have been, "always looking for the mithril in the mud mine."

"Somebody has to be the balance to all your storms, nadad," Frerin countered, and Thorin reached out with a lightning-fast hand and scruffed the golden hair until Frerin hollered in protest and both their nephews were snickering.

"Hoom, hum!" Treebeard said, shaking his hoary old head as they neared the gates. "Well, I might have told you that that would be the way it would go..." Then he stopped, his strange flickering eyes sliding shut, his breath whistling like the wind through branches.

"He does this sometimes," Merry said as though apologising for an eccentric old family member. Then he cleared his throat. "Treebeard! Folks to meet you!"

"...had you taken the time to _listen_ ," Treebeard finished, his head lifting. "Saruman's heart is as rotten as a black Huorn's. Little Master Merry, barum! Friends of yours?"

"Three of my companions," Gandalf said. "I have spoken of them, but you have yet to meet them." He named them, one by one.

The Ent's eyes were very peculiar indeed; deep and dark, but with the glow of amber and of new green life. Treebeard looked at each of the Three Hunters in turn, slowly and carefully, before he turned to Legolas. "So you have come all the way from Mirkwood, my good Elf? A very great forest it used to be!"

"And still is," Legolas said smugly.

Gimli, Thorin, Balin, Fíli and Kíli all snorted loudly in unison.

Legolas' eyebrow twitched, and he sent a narrow elbow backwards into Gimli's chest. "But not so great that we who dwell there ever tire of seeing new trees. I should dearly love to journey in Fangorn's Wood."

Treebeard's eyes gleamed with pleasure. "I hope you may have your wish, ere the hills be much older," he said.

"I will come, if I have the fortune," said Legolas. "I have made a bargain with my friend that, if all goes well, we will visit Fangorn together – by your leave."

"Any Elf that comes with you will be welcome," said Treebeard.

"The friend I speak of is not an Elf," said Legolas, and he threw the words out proudly, almost defiantly, "I mean Gimli, Glóin's son here."

Gimli bowed as low as his seat upon horseback would allow, and the axe slipped from his belt and clattered on the ground.

"Hoom, hm! Ah now," said Treebeard, looking dark-eyed at him. "A dwarf and an axe-bearer! Hoom! I have good will to Elves; but you ask much. This is a strange friendship!"

"Strange it may seem," said Legolas, "but while Gimli lives I shall not come to Fangorn alone. His axe is not for trees, but for orc-necks. Forty-two he hewed in the battle."

"Hoo! Come now!" said Treebeard. "That is a better story!"

Thorin scowled. It had not escaped him that, once again, the Elf had put himself between the threat and Gimli.

"While Gimli lives?" Fíli echoed, and Frerin shrugged.

"It saddens him, to know that Gimli breathes the same air for so brief a time," Balin said, scrutinising the Elf. "For what is the life of a Dwarf to these? Ents, Elves, Wizards: we are but motes of dust that flit into their lives."

"I am afraid we must leave, and I must take your gatekeepers from you," Gandalf said, and Treebeard's shaggy head lowered.

"I shall miss them, hurried noisy little folk," he said, and stretched out his twiglike fingers to the Hobbits. "We have become friends in so short a while that I think I must be getting hasty – growing backwards towards youth, perhaps. But there, they are the first new thing under Sun or Moon that I have seen for many a long, long day. I shall not forget them."

"Nor we you!" cried Merry, and Pippin echoed him. Treebeard hummed and nodded his great head some more, and Thorin finally found himself relaxing around the huge creature, though part of him was still wary.

"Tears stone like bread-crust," he muttered to himself, and stubbornly repressed a shiver.

"Saruman shall not set foot beyond the rock," Treebeard promised, his eyes landing upon Théoden. "Ents shall watch over him. The filth of Isengard shall wash away, and new trees shall come here to live, young trees. Until seven times the years in which he tormented us have passed, we shall not tire of watching him."

Frerin shuddered violently. "Oh, that is plain _disturbing."_

* * *

Edoras was louder and far more bustling this time. No longer did the people stand and watch in funereal silence. Now, wagons and handcarts rolled through the streets as the Rohirrim poured back into their city. Families were weeping and laughing as they were reunited, and there were shrieks of grief that rose up into the air. Songs of victory and of mourning wove about them, echoing across the great grasslands below. Every torch was blazing, crowning the lone hilltop with golden fire that shone out in the darkness.

Thorin shook himself and looked up at the snapping horse-emblazoned pennants above as the starlight sloughed away. Beside him, Nori, Óin and Frerin all stepped forward. He looked back at them to gauge their readiness. Nori rolled his eyes, Óin folded his arms, and Frerin was still rubbing at his face, half-blinded by the stars.

"I wish I were able to predict when Gimlîn-zâram was kind and when it wasn't," he complained, and Nori snorted.

"Nobody can, an' who knows? It might always try t' be kind. _We_ might be the ones what don't always taste so good."

"Do ye _mind,"_ Óin snapped, lifting his chin.

"Whoops, sorry about that, forgot you got et, Óin. Wasn't very wossname – tactful – of me."

Thorin ignored the pair, grabbed Frerin's arm and dragged him forward. His brother made a small noise of protest, still rubbing at his eyes. "Wait a minute," he said, but Thorin only set his teeth and moved forward.

"I will guide you," he said. "It does not last long."

"I _know_ that," said Frerin peevishly, but he allowed Thorin to steer him through the streets of Edoras without further complaint.

"So many of 'em, must breed like fieldmice," Óin said, glancing around. "Where will we find my darn-fool nephew and the rest of the dratted Fellowship, then?"

"They will be at Meduseld," Thorin said absently, pulling Frerin closer and tucking him beneath his arm. "Keep up."

" _You_ keep up," Óin muttered back rebelliously, and his face was as dark as a thundercloud as he followed Thorin through the crowds of celebrating and weeping Rohirrim.

When they entered the Golden Hall, they were nearly knocked back by the _noise._ Warriors and their families stood everywhere, and singing filled the air nearly as thickly as the smoke from the great fire-pit set in the centre of the floor. Thorin blinked as he looked around.

"Too tall, all of 'em, can't see a thing. It's a tall blond forest in here," Nori grumbled, his eyes darting from drunken Rohirrim to drunken Rohirrim. "An' this is just cruel, showing me all these easy marks and not a thing I can do about it. I could skin this lot alive and convince 'em they'd got the best of the bargain."

Thorin ignored that and made his way towards the dais and the ornate carved chair that sat before the great horse-head banners.

Théoden sat there, his fingers wrapped around a drinking-horn and his smile wide, though concern and grief were still present in his face. Beside him was Gandalf, relaxed for once as he spoke to the King with his pipe in hand, and before them stood Éowyn, a stirrup-cup in her hands. Though she did not seem as hard-carved as she normally did, her smile was not exactly peaceful as she watched the milling people before them. Great rough-hewn tables had been dragged before the throne, and upon one of them –

" _Hobbits_ ," said Óin disbelievingly.

"That is not like any dance I've ever seen," said Frerin, wrinkling his nose and peering up at Pippin and Merry, who were cavorting upon the table and singing a song about hot baths, of all things. "Where's the stamping? Who is the winner? Where are the musicians?"

"Why would anyone sing about _baths?"_ said Nori.

"Aragorn should," Frerin murmured to Thorin, and he bit down upon the inside of his lip to stop the smile that threatened to spread over his lips.

"Bilbo wrote that," he murmured back.

Frerin glanced at him, and then his little fingers tightened around his wrist comfortingly.

Pippin whirled, ale sloshing from his ludicrously-large tankard, laughing uproariously. He nearly lurched right off the table-top, and the Men around them all stamped and cheered as an arm whipped out, lightning-fast, to catch and right him. Pippin beamed down at Legolas whose Elven reflexes had saved him from a nasty bump on the head. "Thank you very much!" he said, before waving his tankard at Legolas. "Here now, I haven't drunk a toast to you yet, have I?"

"Shame," said Merry, burping behind one raised hand.

"To Legolas, best of Elves!" Pippin said, leaning more heavily upon Legolas' shoulder and wrapping his little arm around the Elf's neck.

"Here, here!" called Merry, heartily echoed by the surrounding Men. It seemed the Hobbit had become a great favourite amongst them in very little time. Many of them appeared fascinated by the appearance of these little people of legend, full-grown but not even the height of a Rohan child.

"You are rascally drunk," Legolas laughed, "but I cannot begrudge you that after the ordeal you have undergone!"

"Me?" Pippin's eyes widened, and then he sat down upon the table with a thump. " _You_ , say rather! You fought in the battle! I should be terrified of such things."

Legolas' eyes dropped for a moment. "I was fortunate."

Pippin's hand patted clumsily at Legolas' shining hair. "Here now," he said. "What is it?"

"Many things, my little friend, not least of which is the needless and savage death of my kinsfolk," Legolas sighed. Then he looked down at the tankard in his slender hands.

Pippin frowned, peering at Legolas' eyes. "That's not it, is it?"

"Nay," Legolas said, barely audible over the noise. "Honourable, though terrible, was the death of Haldir of Lórien. I grieve in truth, and yet it troubles me not nearly so much as that which I cannot say."

Confusion passed over Pippin's face, before it cleared and he waved his arm as he made an indelicate sound. "Legolas, Legolas! That is foolishness – and when _I_ tell you a thing is foolish, you may be sure of it! Why not say it then? Go on, say it and have it out!"

Legolas did not move, but his breath caught behind his teeth.

"I will not feel sorry for an Elf," Óin muttered. "I will _not."_

"I would not have to speak to an Elf," Legolas said, his eyes growing distant. "There would be time unmeasured, all the time we desired, to sit and allow the moments to come to us as they would. I would have no need to speak, for my very presence would say all I needed. There would be no haste. I would know, and they would know, and we could savour the waiting and the pauses between words as though drinking of the finest of wines. But time races now – nay, it gallops like Shadowfax in the twilight! And I am afraid of it."

"Of time?" Pippin's face was rather lost. Thorin didn't blame him.

"Yes," Legolas sighed, and he took a sip of his mug. "Of time. An Elf, Legolas Thranduilion of the Greenwood, has learned to be afraid of fleeting, false time. It is my enemy: it speeds him from me with every second, every breath, every beat of his great heart. And I am also afeared of the words I cannot say – for how often did we wound each other with words? How often was I to say one thing and he to hear another? We cannot speak as Elves do: without speaking. We cannot let the silence tell us what we would each find needful to know. But I am wind and leaves and he is earth and rock. There is no language between us that speaks of other than ancient, deep pain and mistrust. I do not know what to do. I do not know how to say what the silence would say for me."

Pippin's eyes unfocused, his nose wrinkling. Then he shook out his curls and prodded the Elf emphatically in the chest. " _You_ need another drink," he proclaimed.

And then a wide hand reached out from the fug and squeezed Legolas' shoulder. "Here, lad, I have already performed that duty. Another for you. No wine, I fear!"

Legolas looked up, a smile crossing his face once more. "Ah, no matter, mellon nîn. The ale is hearty enough, though it does not warm the heart as wine of Dorwinion does!"

"Ale heats the belly well enough," Gimli said, sitting down beside the Elf and putting a jug down before them, just before Pippin's curly feet. "Besides, one would think it is _quite_ warm enough in here already!"

"It's hot!" Merry announced, flopping down beside Pippin and nearly upsetting the jug. "This dancing is thirsty work. Spare a mug for me?"

"I should think you've had quite enough," Gimli said, his eyes dancing. Thorin then noticed the forest of mugs and jugs scattered around them, and felt his mouth drop open a little.

"Did those Hobbits drink all of that?" he said, astounded.

"Never underestimate 'em when it comes to their vittles," Gimli murmured, and Thorin's eyes snapped back to his star. That was the first time Gimli had answered him directly since the Caves of Helm's Deep.

"You are not the steadiest upon your feet either, inùdoy kurdulu," he said, his heart swelling against his ribs. "Your braids are frayed. Your hair has seen better days."

"Blast my hair anyway, nuisance that it is," Gimli retorted cheerfully. "Come, Master Hobbits! Give us another song!"

The call was echoed by the surrounding Men, and Thorin spotted the tall shape of Éomer amongst them, laughing and bashing his mug against the table-tops.

"Oh, Merry!" Pippin said, lurching upright and tugging at his cousin's arm. "This one, this one!"

He tapped his foot against the floor a couple of times, and then he began to sing: "There's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn beneath an old grey hill! And there they brew a beer so brown that the Man in the Moon himself came down..."

"Oh, Frodo would have our ears!" Merry giggled, before he whirled to join Pippin, his voice raised even louder. "One night to drink his fill!"

Gimli jerked. "I know that song!" he exclaimed. And he began to clash his hobnailed boots against the floor as his voice, deeper than the deepest voices of Men, joined in;

[["The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late", performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/75122611960/this-is-the-seventh-song-of-the-songs-of-sansukh)]

" _The landlord keeps a little dog_  
_that is mighty fond of jokes;_  
_When there's good cheer among the guests,_  
_He cocks an ear at all the jests  
_ _and laughs until he chokes."_

"When did you learn _that?"_ Óin gasped, before he buried his face in his hands. "No, no, I dinnae ever want to know."

Thorin had a sneaking suspicion that the old drinking song might have been associated in some way with Borin's, that infamous tavern in Ered Luin. "Fíli and Kíli," he said darkly.

"No doubt," agreed Nori, before he grinned. "Though he might have heard it at my little establishment, or from his brother-in-law."

"One of these days I shall be havin' _words_ with Bofur," Óin grumbled, before he looked back up at the two dancing Hobbits, who were linked arm-in-arm and performing some sort of skipping step that involved a great deal of lurching from Pippin and much giggling on Merry's part:

" _The round Moon rolled behind the hill,_  
_as the Sun raised up her head._  
_She hardly believed her fiery eyes;_  
_For though it was day, to her surprise  
_ _they all went back to bed!"_

Gimli finished with a smack of his broad palms against the table-top, and then he lifted his tankard to the Hobbits and threw half of it back. "That was excellent, as welcome as a taste o' home! Though it needs a fiddle or two, and a gittern as well to really shake the Hall," he declared loudly, grinning from ear to ear. "How did I not know that Hobbits knew of that song?"

The Men around them were cheering with even greater fervour. The addition of another voice had spurred the pair of dancers to even greater heights, and Pippin was pink-cheeked and Merry was laughing breathlessly. "The Blue Mountains lie close enough to the Shire, do they not?"

"Ah, but is it a Dwarvish song, or a Hobbitish song?" asked Legolas with a sly smile, and Gimli snorted loudly.

"Dwarvish, o' course."

"Not so, not so," Pippin said, waggling a finger. "That song has been sung by Tooks forever and a day! Why, if you cut me open you would find it carved into my heart!"

"What a peculiar thing to have carved on a heart," Gimli said in a mild voice, and Merry pushed at Pippin with a shoulder.

"Don't be ridiculous, Pip," he said, and then he grinned. "If you can help it."

Pippin poked his finger into Merry's breastbone. "I," he said with great dignity, "am a Took, a very important Took. Of _course_ I can't."

Merry sniggered some more, and threw his arm around Pippin's shoulders. "Here, Gimli! Sing us a Dwarvish song then! My throat is dry as a bone, and this very important Took here needs another tankard. He's beginning to make sense."

Gimli chuckled. "Mahal forbid!"

"Go on, Gimli, Dwarf amongst Dwarves," Pippin wheedled, and Gimli held up his hands for a moment's peace.

"Very well, very well! But give me a chance to drink my ale, would you?"

Thorin's attention was caught by a soft word, and he turned to see Éowyn bending close to her uncle, her long hair glinting white-gold in the dim torchlight.

"Understand me, sister-daughter," Théoden said, taking her face in his rough old hands. "I do not mean to trap you."

"But you do, though you mean well," she said, and her eyes lifted to his. "Uncle, I understand you. I am no fool. You wish for me to be safe; you wish for one of our line to lead our people; you wish for the House of Eorl to continue. But you do not understand me. You do not understand at all, or you would see that all your words and wishes are but bars I must peer through at the life I want to lead."

"Bars?" he said, and his thumb smoothed down her cheek. "Éowyn. Éowyn, you are a shieldmaiden of my line. I would not cage you for all the world."

"Then why must you continue to do so, adding yet more bars with every excuse you make?" she said, and his mouth hardened.

"Do you forget yourself?"

"I know myself well, uncle," she replied lowly.

He sighed, and then he bowed his head in defeat. "Yes, I make the excuses a King must. For that is the role I play, Éowyn: mine are the decisions, for good or ill, and I have few around me to trust in these dark days, though a few more than I did when I lay smothered under the cloak of Wormtongue's whisperings. I love you, sister-daughter, and as your uncle who loves you I would give you the life you yearn for. I would give you the moon, were I able to pluck it from the sky. But I am also your King, and your King needs you elsewhere. Théoden son of Thengel cannot do as he will, for the King, and the Kingdom, are ever-hungry and ever-needy. And I am robbed of Théodred, and Éomer has the loyalty of his Éored but not of the people. He will follow me, aye. But they will follow _you."_

She was very still for a long second, and her eyes pressed closed tightly. "I see."

"Do you?" he said gently, and he shook his head. "For I despair that I must hurt you, as I always hurt you. I have brought to you such grief, and you give me love and duty in return and only ask for this one thing – this one thing that I may not give."

Her lips parted in astonishment, and then she shook her own fair head. "No, you do not bring me grief," she said, but it was weak and she seemed to sense it. Her gaze slid away, and then fixed upon one corner.

Thorin followed her eyeline to where he could see a figure beyond the great gold-bound doors, outlined against the sky. A pipe was held to its lips, and the head tipped back as it released the smoke.

"Aragorn," he said in realisation.

Théoden glanced over at the ranger, and then smiled gently. "I am happy for you in this, at least. He is an honourable man."

"You are both honourable men," she said in a fervent voice. With a blink, Thorin recognised the expression she wore and the light in her eyes. It was the same that shone in the faces of his nephews and family. _Loyalty_.

"Honour, a willing heart," he finished under his breath, and ignored the dull pang of his heart. "None could ask more than that."

"It was not Théoden of Rohan who led our people to victory," Théoden said, and he fixed his eyes upon Aragorn's silhouette with a speculative look.

Aragorn's hand lifted, as though touching something that hung about his neck.

Frerin muttered a rather nasty insult in Khuzdul, and ducked the swipe of Thorin's hand at his head. "Doesn't appreciate her," he grumbled, looking back at Éowyn with soulful eyes.

  
Puppy Love, (or, Frerin no) by [Gremlinloquacious](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/66102993420/puppy-love-also-entitled-frerin-no-whilst-gimli)

"Oh, this is just gettin' ridiculous now," Óin said irritably. "Is there anyone around here who ain't gettin' sappy?"

Nori grinned. "Me. I prefer t' sort such things out on my ownsome, if you take my meaning. No need to get any others involved."

Óin made a noise of exasperation. "Good, that's a sensible way t' be, to my mind."

Thorin glanced back at them with a half-smile. "Not all of us prefer our crafts and our families, buhû."

"Well, o' course not. Who'd be satisfied with blacksmithing?" Óin sniffed.

Frerin folded his arms. "Are you _mocking_ me?"

Óin glanced over at the young Dwarrow who was standing with his feet apart, bristling with indignation. His eyes softened. "No, lad," he said, and patted Frerin's shoulder. "No I'm not. It's not fer me, but if it makes you happy then I am glad for you."

Frerin deflated and then looked up at Éowyn. "Thank you," he mumbled, and then sighed longingly as Éowyn took the stirrup-cup and handed it to her uncle, her head bowing.

Théoden took it with gentle hands, before lifting it to the Hall. "The victorious dead," he proclaimed, and, meeting his niece's eyes, he drank.

"THE VICTORIOUS DEAD!" The Golden Hall rang with the shout.

She watched silently, and took back the cup when he had finished. Gandalf watched with glittering, unfathomable eyes as she walked through the rowdy crowds to the door, where Aragorn leaned against a pillar.

Frerin huffed and his fists tightened as she handed him the stirrup-cup with a murmured, "Westû Aragorn, hal!"

"I don't like this at _all,"_ he declared loudly.

"Strength, my brother," Thorin said quietly to him. Frerin threw him a sharp glare to see if he was being mocked, and upon seeing nothing but sincerity upon Thorin's face he deflated.

"Well, I don't," he grumbled.

Then a Dwarvish voice lifted over the din, and Frerin's eyebrows shot up as he stared at Thorin, speechless for a moment.

"He can't be singing _that_!" Nori said, disbelieving.

"Ach, hulhaj, hulhaj, hulhaj!" Óin moaned, and Frerin patted his back in return.

"Um. There, there," he said helplessly.

Thorin could only turn slowly to where his star was singing in his great deep voice, a song that had never in his memory been sung above stone and surely never before in the whole history of Arda before Men and Elves. Gimli's eyes were half-closed, and he was looking up at the torchlight as though his eyes saw another world, one far away and lost. His voice rolled out over the crowd, strong and low and rich:

[[The Song of Beginnings, composed and performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/75228324177/this-is-the-eighth-song-of-the-songs-of-sansukh)]

[[The Song of Beginnings, composed and performed by muchymozzarella](http://muchymozzarella.tumblr.com/post/75231787958/for-determamfidd-her-song-from-sansukh-butchered)]

" _In the beginning we were stone and the stone was dead,_  
_And the stone was hard and cold._  
_The stone was taken and the stone was shaped_  
_In the darkness of the days of old._  
_The hands that loved us made us secret and strong;_  
_The mind that wrought us knew we did not belong;_  
_A discordant note in the primeval Song.  
_ _Blessed be Mahal and the mercy of the One._

_In the beginning we were stone and the stone was mute_  
_And stone has no will of its own._  
_Mahal gave us his will and moved us with his love,_  
_And we thought his thoughts alone._  
_Then we sang with his words and we saw with his eyes;_  
_We felt his great joys and we sighed with his sighs;_  
_And all that we did was as he had devised.  
_ _Blessed be Mahal and the mercy of the One._

_In the beginning we were stone and the stone was afraid,_  
_For all things desire to grow._  
_We were found imperfect and cowered in shame,_  
_And we discovered fear and sorrow._  
_And our thoughts were our own and our will was too;_  
_Away from the fatal hammer-blow we drew,_  
_And we wept as Mahal prepared all his work to undo.  
_ _Blessed be Mahal and the mercy of the One._

_In the beginning we were stone and the stone became flesh,_  
_And the flesh was new and pure._  
_The One looked at us with pity and upon Mahal with love,_  
_And permitted us to endure._  
_The Seven were bound in slumber fathoms deep,_  
_Against the coming of the Children their secrets to keep;_  
_In darkness and in stone they were laid to sleep.  
_ _Blessed be Mahal and the mercy of the One._

_In the end we will be flesh, and the flesh will fail,_  
_And our lives will return to the stone._  
_The world will be renewed at the end of all days:_  
_Again our works will be Mahal's alone._  
_And we will heal the great wounds in the skin of the earth;_  
_We will sing with our words; we will prove our great worth._  
_We will never forget that we were stone at birth;  
_ _Blessed be Mahal and the mercy of the One."_

There was a hushed pause, and then Merry said softly, "that was beautiful, Gimli. A beautiful song."

Gimli smiled. "Sounds better in Khuzdul. You made me think o' home, so you may blame yourselves for that."

"And gladly," Pippin said, his eyes wide and his chin perched upon his little hands. "Marvellous!"

"You have a fine voice, my friend," said Éomer, and Gimli waved his hand in modest dismissal and reached for the jug to fill his empty tankard. "Unlike anything we have heard. Do all Dwarves sing so low?"

Gimli shook his head. "No, not all. Barís Crystaltongue is the most celebrated singer of my generation. She can sing as high as a lark, as low as an underground lake; soft as a whisper of wind or as loud as the thundering storm, and yet always as clear as diamonds in sunlight. It is a great honour to hear her play and sing."

"I should look forward to that," said Aragorn, sending the utterly-still Legolas an amused glance. "The Elves who raised me were very fond of fine voices."

"Aye, as are Dwarves. But then, music is everywhere," Gimli said, taking another sip. "We sing from our cradles and take up instruments whenever we can. Idle hands need occupation, after all!" He grinned. "If you want to drive a Dwarf crazy, break all their fingers."

"Do you play, Master Dwarf?" Éomer seemed surprised.

"Aye, the fiddle," Gimli said, licking ale from his moustache. "My cousin taught me, ere he died. I was an indifferent student, but I am fond of it for his sake."

"No doubt it is as remarkable as your song," said Éomer jovially.

Gimli's eyes grew sheepish. "To tell you truth, I should not have sung that. Perhaps I am feeling more like a Dwarf of Erebor today, and less like one of the Three Hunters."

"Say not so!" Aragorn said, shaking his head. "You are _our_ Dwarf, of the Three Kindreds. We need your spirit and your axe." He deliberately sent a knee into Legolas' back. "Is that not so?"

Legolas did not respond, his starry eyes transfixed upon Gimli and his mouth slack and gentle.

Thorin stepped closer, and then he found his voice. "You should _not_ have sung the Song of Beginnings," he growled, and then he knuckled his forehead. "Oh, you will do as you wish – you always do!"

"It does not harm any for me to sing it," Gimli said, and he tipped his head back in a slightly-defiant manner that told Thorin that his complaint had been heard.

"They are our secrets to keep," Thorin said between gritted teeth.

One corner of Gimli's lip tugged to the side. "Aye, and blast our secrets. They have only ever caused suspicion and mistrust," he said, and then he deliberately turned to the Elf beside him. "All right there, laddie? You should give us one o' your songs of trees and stars and tragedy! This is a fine Hall for a song."

Thorin bristled.

Legolas, whose gaze was still glued to the Dwarf, suddenly shook himself. "I..." he began, and then he took a great gulp of his mug to hide his confusion.

"I will _not_ feel sorry fer an Elf!" snapped Óin, and he clapped a hand over his eyes. "Oh, my brave bold nephew, you are as dense as granite!"

" _You_ dropped him on his head," Thorin snapped back, and then a wave of consternation passed over him. "Wait, who am I defending?"

Frerin doubled over, trying to muffle his laughter.

"I do not know if my songs are fit for such a celebration," Legolas said, and he looked down at the mug that was wrapped in his fine, long-boned fingers.

"Oh mahumb," Gimli scoffed. Thorin now saw that he was far drunker than he had supposed, and the flush across the bridge of his nose and atop the apples of his cheeks was due to more than the heat. "Come on, Legolas, I have done my turn! We must represent the North, after all!"

Legolas looked up, and his gaze was soft as it rested upon the Dwarf. "True enough," he said. Then he laughed. "I do not think I can match your effort."

"Will you stop talking nonsense?" Gimli said, his hands landing upon his hips in a painfully Dwarvish manner and his head tilting expectantly. "Whoever heard of a Dwarf besting an Elf in a contest of song? Come now, raise your voice, ugbal bâhûn! I hear you warbling incessantly as we ride upon that torture-device you call a horse: surely you can manage a tune now that we no longer have Arod for an audience?"

"You speak him ill, but I know you grow fond of him," Legolas teased.

"Aye, as fond as any could be of an aching backside and stiff legs," Gimli countered. "Sing!"

Legolas laughed, and then he raised his voice. Unlike Gimli's deep subterranean rumble, Legolas' voice was cool and clear and as light as a sparkling brook:

[["The Song of Lúthien and Beren", performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/75569877837/here-is-the-ninth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-it-can)]

" _The leaves were long, the grass was green,_  
_The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,_  
_And in the glade a light was seen_  
_Of stars in shadow shimmering._  
_Tinúviel was dancing there_  
_To music of a pipe unseen,_  
_And light of stars was in her hair,  
_ _And in her raiment glimmering._

_There Beren came from mountains cold,_  
_And lost he wandered under leaves,_  
_And where the Elven-river rolled_  
_He walked alone and sorrowing._  
_He peered between the hemlock-leaves_  
_And saw in wonder flowers of gold_  
_Upon her mantle and her sleeves,_  
_And her hair like shadow following."_

There was more, but Thorin had caught the expression upon Aragorn's face as he turned away. He tapped Frerin's shoulder softly to let him know, and then moved after the Man through the crowds.

Aragorn pushed his way towards the door once more, and stood out upon the stone platform that lifted Meduseld high above the houses of Edoras. His breath was coming faster and there was a great pain in his eyes.

"You left quickly," came Éomer's voice. "Does the Elf's song offend you?"

Aragorn was silent for a moment, and then he bowed his head. "No, I took no offense. But I fear I understand it too well."

Éomer came to stand beside Aragorn, his proud face calm and unruffled. "I hear my uncle owes you a great debt."

Aragorn inclined his head. "Théoden-King is kind to say so."

"It is not the King who tells me so." Éomer cast his eyes out over the city, his yellow hair tugged by the ferocious winds of the plain. "The men of his Éored tell me that it was Aragorn son of Arathorn who led our people raging from their boltholes and into the enemy's teeth."

"I but did my part," Aragorn said quietly.

"I thank you for it, then," Éomer said.

"I hear you owe your life to a Dwarf," said Aragorn, turning to the Marshall of the Mark with a half-smile upon his lips, and Éomer chuckled softly.

"I do. When I met you in the grasslands I could not have foreseen that the Dwarf who took such immediate and fierce affront to my words should prove my saviour. Yet the world works in strange ways, and even stranger do they become in these dark days." He sent Aragorn a measuring look. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Elendil."

Aragorn was still for a second, and then his breath left him in a rush. "You speak truth," he replied, and the two Men stood and looked out at the sky, listening to the strange and mournful-sounding songs of the people of Rohan as they celebrated their victory and mourned their dead.

  
[](http://witchofcake.tumblr.com/post/83387663200/from-sansukh-chapter-twenty-seven-the)  
Three Kings, by [witchofcake](http://witchofcake.tumblr.com/post/83387663200/from-sansukh-chapter-twenty-seven-the)

* * *

It was very late.

Gimli was swaying quite a lot as he made his way through the corridors of Meduseld, his burly arm wrapped around the waist of an equally inebriated Elf. Every now and then he performed a little hop-step similar to the axe-dances of the Firebeards, and Legolas stumbled and laughed each time.

Thorin had sent Óin and Frerin back to the Halls of Mahal, and only Nori and he stood as witness to the bizarre spectacle. He was quite glad Óin had left. No doubt he would have exploded from embarrassment.

"You," Legolas said, lurching until he leaned somewhat against a wall with his free hand, "are a very convenient height, Master Dwarf. For an Elf. To rest upon. Against. Lean against."

"Subtle," Nori snorted.

"And you," Gimli returned, hiccupping, "are scurrilous drunk, a disgrace to Elvenkind an' I'm mortified to know ye. An' I am indeed a very good height, thank you for noticin'."

"Your accent gets thicker the drunker you are," Legolas said, and his fingers played a little over Gimli's fiery, thoroughly-mussed hair. He squinted down at it, as though only just now realising what his hand was doing. "And your hair is... coarse. Very coarse... and so thick I marvel you can pass a comb through it at all."

"Hmm?" Gimli peered upwards, before pulling his head away from Legolas' curious fingers. "Get off!"

"I did not say it was unpleasant," Legolas said, injured, and Gimli blew out a stream of air between his teeth, his whole demeanour deflating a little.

"Oh."

The pair lurched down the corridor some more.

"Can ye remember which room was ours?"

"Gandalf snores, we should be able to hear him well enough."

"Keep your ears hmm... peeled then. Your hearing is sharper than mine."

"Hold steady!" Legolas said, and rested a moment with his back pressed against a door. "You would have tipped me straight over, meleth nîn, and I doubt I have the wherewithal to put myself back upon my feet!"

"Ha!" Gimli grinned up at him. "Does this mean I win?"

"No, for I still stand," Legolas told him solemnly. Gimli's laugh was delighted and low. "Your pupils are huge and black as night in the darkness," the Elf continued in a dreamy sort of tone. "I would not have believed it. No wonder you can see in the dark, with such eyes."

"You can talk of eyes, Master Far-sight," Gimli prodded his side. "Sleep! I need it, an' now!"

"You snore worse than Gandalf."

Gimli flicked his great broad hand in dismissal. "Pfft. Lies and Elvish propaganda."

"I am afraid not, meleth nîn."

"Well, you sleep with your eyes open," Gimli retorted, and he hauled himself to his unsteady feet. "Ach, this Hall spins and turns like a child's plaything! Up you get, Master Elf!"

"Pippin said I should simply say it and have it out," Legolas mumbled as Gimli tugged him upright and began to lead him along the corridor once more. "Ai, mellon nîn, meleth nîn... Gi melin, gi melin n'uir. Nogoth vuin. Annon 'ûr nîn angin, Gimli-nîn ..."

Gimli frowned up at him. "Westron, thanking you kindly!"

"Ah, I do not think you would care to hear me say such things," Legolas said upon a sigh, and his hand wandered once more until it touched lightly upon Gimli's hair. "Would I find warm arms or hard axes waiting for me? I am an Elf, after all."

"Aye, you are Legolas, a very ridiculous Elf," Gimli corrected, his frown growing deeper. "Here now, what is this? Sighs – and tears? What is it you are trying to tell me, lad?"

"Lad," Legolas repeated with sudden bitterness, and he wound a strand of Gimli's hair around his finger slowly, watching the red shine, glossy as blood in the dim guttering torchlight. "Aye, and there is the heart of the matter. I am Elfkind. You are mortal. I was full-grown when your father's father's father was a squalling child. I was cold to Tauriel's words and to her warm heart and to their desperate plight. I locked them up and sneered, and I was glad. I was _glad._ "

"Legolas, are you well?" Gimli put his hand over Legolas', twined in his hair. "You do not make sense! Are you grieved over Haldir?"

"Oh, he is so bloody thick, this is painful to watch," Nori burst out. Then he turned to Thorin. "Tell him. Mahal below, _please_ tell him."

"Not Haldir, though my heart weeps for him," Legolas said, and his eyes were trained upon Gimli's huge, hard hand, wrapped securely around his own long white fingers. "That sadness shall not soon pass, but this? – O, this shall be the silent sorrow of my life, I fear."

"I do not have mercy for the fickle hearts of Elves," Thorin snarled under his breath, but he knew his voice lacked conviction.

Gimli's mouth pursed. Then his heavy jaw tensed beneath his beard and he said, "my Lord is here."

Legolas' head whipped up. There was true panic in his eyes.

"I could ask him," Gimli said, and he lifted his free hand and gently guided Legolas' fair head down to his level. "He sees much and knows more, my great King, my guardian and cousin. I could ask him what ails you so."

"Gimli," Legolas all but begged. "Meleth nîn, no."

Gimli's forehead butted up against the Elf's. "I will not," he rumbled gently. "I would not do that to you. But tell me, Legolas. What ails you? What is there to harm you here?"

Legolas' breath hitched around a sob, his fist tightening in Gimli's riotous hair – and finally, _finally_ Gimli's eyes widened.

"Me," he said in a half-whisper. "Legolas, do I harm you?"

Nori strangled a scream in the back of his throat, tugging at the braids of his beard.

"No," Legolas said weakly, and he closed his glittering Elven eyes and leaned against Gimli's forehead with more of his weight, trusting in Gimli's great strength to hold him. "You do not harm me. You never harm me. I wish for something that cannot be, that is all."

"What cannot be? Who is it that causes you such pain, if not me?" Gimli demanded, and Thorin tensed.

"He fancies the braids off you, you stupid...!" Nori shouted. Thorin winced.

"It is nothing," Legolas sighed. "Just the night and the ale. I will be well enough, my dearest friend."

  
Gimli and Legolas, by [valveillen](https://valveillen.tumblr.com/post/76057923144/lotr-fanart)

Gimli's expression was not convinced, but he allowed the Elf his wounded retreat and seemingly accepted the feeble excuse. He lifted up high upon his toes and pressed a bushy kiss upon the fair brow. "Come then, poor ale-soaked Elf, let us seek our beds."

"Aye," Legolas said, and he straightened slowly. "Hark! I can hear Gandalf."

"Which door?"

"The end one."

Gimli nodded and yawned hugely, rubbing at his eye with one fist. "Oh, my _head_."

"Even your head of stone must ache now and then," Legolas said with an attempt at his usual light flippancy, and Gimli grinned.

"Better that than a head stuffed with leaves! Still, I could sleep for a year or more. I will lead the way: there is someone asleep underneath a tapestry ahead, and I can show you where best to step."

Legolas nodded, and Gimli patted his arm comfortingly before he took the lead. Then he paused and looked back. "Legolas, you can tell me anything. I hope you know that. I would not mock you, nor harm you for all the mithril in Khazad-dûm."

Legolas forced a smile. "I know. I thank you. No Ellon ever had such a friend."

Gimli held Legolas' eyes for a moment, and then he nodded and began to make his unsteady way towards the end of the corridor.

Legolas' smile fell, and the look upon his face was torn beyond measure. His head dipped: the look was obscured by the golden fall of his hair. Then he walked after the Dwarf with surely the heaviest tread an Elf ever had.

As he trailed behind the Dwarf, his fingers rose and touched his brow with a delicate, questioning touch.

"He came so close to saying it," said Thorin, the tension draining out of him only to be replaced... by sadness? For the Elf? _Never._

But he could not deny that he knew that expression and that pain. He knew what it was to behold your very heart before your eyes and be unable to reach out and clasp it close.

"What stopped him?" Nori said in frustration. "He'd almost said it – an' I would have won the betting pool!"

Thorin sent him a flat look.

"All right, so I've rigged it an' I'll win the betting pool anyway," Nori muttered, and he tossed his elaborately-braided head. "Still, I would have made a tidy little sum in a private matter between me an' your illustrious father."

"Adad made a private wager?" Thorin blinked. Thráin had certainly kept very hush-hush on _that._

"Would have been a nice little earner, too," Nori grumbled, glaring at Gimli. "After all our many ventures, this is how you repay me? Ashamed I am, me dear. Ashamed and astonished at you. How many times did I back you in the Durin's Day tourneys?"

"You backed his rivals too," Thorin murmured.

Nori flapped his hand dismissively. "But everyone _knew_ my main chance was the little Lordling! What stopped him? Why didn't the Elf bloody well talk? You normally can't get him to shut up!"

Thorin tried to ignore the rising lump in his throat and the mounting sympathy in his breast as he answered in a voice that was rougher than it should be: "He does not think of himself. He thinks of Gimli. He thinks of all that stands between them, all the ways by which they are divided by custom and habit and time. Did you not hear him? He spoke of mortality, and of our capture in Mirkwood and the Captain of the Guard..." He trailed off.

 _Kíli_.

"I need to talk to my nephew," he said abruptly, and impatience was thick upon his tongue. "I need to talk to him _now."_

* * *

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Annon 'ûr nîn angin – I give you my heart  
> Mellon nîn – my friend  
> Meleth nîn – my love  
> Nogoth – Dwarf  
> Gi melin, gi melin n'uir – I love you, I love you forever  
> Nan aear adh in elin – by the sea and stars  
> Losto vae – sleep well
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Hulhaj - Shame  
> Mahumb – Droppings (feces)  
> Ugbal bâhûn – greatest friend.  
> inùdoy kurdulu – my son of the heart  
> Zuznel- bad of bad  
> Buhû - Friends  
> Shândabi! – agreed!  
> Idmi - welcome  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> 'adad – father  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool
> 
> Some lines taken from the chapters, "The Road to Isengard", "Flotsam and Jetsam", and "The Voice of Saruman", and from the films.
> 
> Ents: The creation of the Ents is detailed in the Silmarillion. They are the true children of Yavanna (and _not_ Hobbits, as has become popular fanon – sorry, sorry, sorry!), created when she decried the terrible damage that Dwarves (and to a lesser degree, Men) could and were doing to her greatest and best-beloved works, the trees. She begged Manwë for creatures of her own to protect the Olvar (plants) of her domain, and in response the Ents were born. They are the strongest of all living creatures, able to crush stone between their fingers as though breaking up breadcrust. Trolls were not made from Ents (as Orcs were made from Elves), but were rather made in mockery of them, trying to replicate their strength.
> 
> Cram - the waybread (travel-bread) of the Men of Dale. Similiar to Lembas, but far less tasty. Described as interesting "only as a chewing exercise'.
> 
> Istari - The Wizards. These were Maiar spirits sent through the mists between Aman and Arda to walk Middle-Earth and help the Children of Eru Ilúvatar against Sauron's evil. There were five, of which Curumo (later known as Saruman) was the greatest. Curumo was a Maia of Aulë. The others were Alatar (Morinehtar), Aiwendil (Radagast), Pallando (Rómestámo) and Olórin (Gandalf). Each took the form of an old Man, and each had a 'colour' he was known by: Saruman was white, Alatar and Pallando were blue, Aiwendil was brown and Olórin was grey.
> 
> The _Song of Beginning_ is my own (shoddy) work. Legolas' song is the _Song of Beren and Lúthien_ , which tells of one of the most passionate unions between Elf and Mortal in the history of Arda. Referenced also is _Bilbo's Bath Song_ , which is sung by Pippin in the chapter, "A Conspiracy Unmasked" from _The Fellowship of the Ring._
> 
> 'The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late' was ostensibly written by Bilbo (as mentioned in the chapter, "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony".) However, it is sung by Bofur in the extended edition of the film, _The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey._ As Ered Luin and the Shire are reasonably close to each other, I have compromised by making it a common folk-song of Eriador.
> 
> I wouldn't be able to do this amount of writing or research without the warm, steadfast and jaw-dropping support of everyone here. Thank you so much for ever kind word and kudos! You are wonderful. *hugs*


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya all! You may have noticed that I have gone through and added many of the amazing fanarts and songs and fanworks that have been made for this story (with permission). All you incredibly creative people are so dedicated and hardworking and fab, you inspire me. I am thrilled to share your work with the people who enjoy this story. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
>  **Art and Artiness** ([The Sansukh MasterPost](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost) \- for the comprehensive list! AW YISS)
> 
> Flukeoffate (LOVE YOU OKAY)  
> \- [Gimizh!](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/75009114681/gimizh-is-apparently-my-muse-today-gimizh)  
> \- [Legolas, Gimli and Gimizh](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/74999108518/um-i-have-no-idea-what-i-was-doing-when-i-started)
> 
> a-sirens-lullaby (THANK YOU)  
> -[Vili son of Var](http://a-sirens-lullaby.tumblr.com/post/76288510730/a-dwarf-with-a-multitude-of-honey-coloured-braids)  
> -AMAZING [Sansukh Cover Art!](http://a-sirens-lullaby.tumblr.com/post/76190764386/sansukh-by-determamfidd-the-battle-was-over-and)
> 
> valveillen (YOU ARE AMAZING)  
> \- [Drunk Gimli and Legolas, Chapter 28](http://valveillen.tumblr.com/post/76057923144/lotr-fanart)
> 
> hhavenh  
> \- [Loni and Frar](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/75845013186/ah-ive-bled-them-out-loni-and-frar-and-no)  
> \- [Loni and Frar hug](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/75308889207/a-sketchy-finish-to-the-previous-one-of-loni-and)  
> \- [Loni comforting Frar](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/75240810172/loni-and-frar-from-determamfidds-epic-tolkien)
> 
> laughxoutxloux94  
> -[Motivational poster (quote from Chapter 10)](http://laughxoutxloud94.tumblr.com/post/75107834601/would-you-laugh-at-my-grey-beard-i-wonder-would)
> 
>    
>  **Music**
> 
> notanightlight (YOU DARLING LOVELY GEM YOU)  
> \- [The Man in the Moon stayed out too late](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/75122611960/this-is-the-seventh-song-of-the-songs-of-sansukh)  
> \- [Song of Beginnings](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/75228324177/this-is-the-eighth-song-of-the-songs-of-sansukh)  
> \- [Luthien and Beren](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/75569877837/here-is-the-ninth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-it-can)
> 
> muchymozzarella (PHENOMENAL HUMAN BEING)  
> -[ Song of Beginnings](http://muchymozzarella.tumblr.com/post/75231787958/for-determamfidd-her-song-from-sansukh-butchered)
> 
> (If I have forgotten anything SORRY SORRY MEA CULPA) Right, on with it!  
> *bites nails nervously*

Bifur leaned back and watched as his cousin Barur ladled out dish after dish of stew. The third child of Bombur and Alrís was a rotund, thickset Dwarrow with a tremendous brown and bristly moustache (of which he was very proud). His hands moved with deft precision, never faltering. The right amount was always doled into each bowl, and not a drop was spilled.

"There," he said, and laid down the ladle, wiping his hands upon the dishcloth tucked beneath his apron. His hands were even more burned and scarred than any smith's could ever be, with knife-nicks upon the fingers, blisters here and there, one or two blackened nails and a giant callus from the handle of his trusty cleaver between thumb and forefinger. "Take it out. Mind y' don't eat any!"

The little Dwarrow before him blinked owlishly. "I wouldn't!"

"I know you, cousin," Barur Stonebelly said, squinting at the little lad with wary suspicion. "That's to go to your mother at the infirmary, and not to your little friends. I'll be asking later, see if I don't!"

"Barur," complained the lad, and he stamped his foot and rolled his eyes. "I'm not about to steal _soup_!"

"Hmmph." Barur leaned back and folded his arms over his famous belly. He had gained his epithet not through its size (which was considerable: Barur's stoutness had made him the subject of quite a few admiring glances) but through his ability to eat practically _anything_ – and what was more, cook it until it actually tasted good _._ Rumour had it that he had even made Elvish food somehow palatable. "I s'pose not. I'll be counting the cookies in the tin, too."

"Baaaaarur," the young one moaned loudly, tossing his red head. "Come on, _pleeeeeeeeease?"_

"When you return, khuzdith, and not before," Barur said sternly. "Then I shall give you and your friends a cookie apiece and no more. Any issue with that, take it up with your mother."

The Dwarfling pouted as he took the tray of bowls in his sturdy little hands. "Oh, _fine,"_ he groused, and wrinkled his nose. "It doesn't look very interesting."

"It shouldn't be interesting, it's for convalescents. Nourishin', simple and hearty," Barur returned in his gruff way. "Get on with you now, Gimizh, before they grow cold."

  


  
  


Gimizh, by [ Ursubs](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/114172966338/so-i-recently-fell-in-love-with-the-fanfic-sansukh)

  


Bifur smiled as the smallest of his cousins stuck out his tongue at the largest, before scurrying away with the tray held tightly to his body.

"I'd have walloped him with your ladle, if I were you," remarked Albur. The little fellow whom Bifur only remembered vaguely as a baby had grown into a merry-faced young Dwarrow of seventy-eight, with Bombur's bright hair and Alrís' eternal optimism. He was serving out an apprenticeship as a cook under his famous older brother, though he didn't appear to have much aptitude for food (except for eating it).

"Well, you're the youngest, you learn patience after a while," Barur grunted, and he patted his little brother on the head. Then his eyes narrowed. "Haven't you plucked those fowl yet?"

"It's such a mucky job," Albur said, his face screwing up in distaste.

"Aye, and everyone has to start off with the mucky jobs. That's what an apprenticeship _is_. Mahal wept, you're not even halfway through!" Barur shook his head, his vast moustaches twitching with displeasure. "Get out of the way, I'll do it. Slowpoke! We only have an hour or so before the Lords and Ladies need their evening meal! Damn it all, I shall have no time to roast them. I wanted to roast them. Ach, poached it is!" He bent to the sink beside Albur and feathers began to fly.

Bifur snickered at Albur's affronted look. It wasn't often that the celebrated cook ever spoke roughly to his siblings. Barur had no interest in either romance nor bodily pleasure at all, but he was fiercely devoted to his brothers and sisters and their ever-growing horde of children. Albur in particular, as the youngest of Barur's eleven siblings, was very used to being spoiled. He had grown up in the splendour and comfort of Erebor, and had not tasted the hardships that his elder siblings had known.

As indulgent as Barur was, however, there was _one_ thing that could make him terse as Orla herself, and that was his beloved cooking. "Mizùl," Bifur told Albur, leaning back and linking his fingers together on his stomach. "You are going to need it, cousin!"

Albur winced and ducked as feathers began to settle in his hair and upon his nose, making him sneeze.

Bifur decided to leave them to it (the air around Barur was swiftly becoming a blizzard of feathers) and wandered aimlessly through the labyrinth that was Erebor's kitchens. They were a dizzying maze of room after room, all designed for a different purpose. There were the baking rooms with their massive ovens and here and there were stairs that led to deep darkroom cellars cut into the rock. Wisps of smoke were escaping from behind a door, and so Bifur knew that the curing-rooms were in use again (the whole mountain would smell of ham for days), and cooks bustled here and everywhere.

Trays were sent through every door upon the arm of any young Dwarfling of a reasonable age and size, all drafted into temporary service. The normal messengers were gone. All able-bodied Dwarrows who were not members of the main kitchen staff, the weapons-factories or the infirmary had been sent to the walls to act as auxiliaries, messengers and supply-chains under Quartermaster Dori's watchful eye. Every single Dwarf was working to support their warriors; every one did their part to see off the besiegers.

It was how it had to be. With so few allies, just a small contingent of Elven archers, and no other assistance, every pair of hands was needed. Their army was partially untrained, after all, and they had lost too many doughty fighters eighty years ago. Durin's beard, they had lost too many over the last _two centuries_ to ever hope to rebuild the great forces of ancient days.

Bifur spotted Dwalin's eldest boy by his mohawk-like shock of hair and his dark Blacklock skin, but the lad scurried away after merely a moment, his arms laden with waterskins. Then the bright red head of Bofur's son bobbed back into view, and he grinned and sped to catch up.

The little fellow was singing quietly to himself as he made his way through the busy kitchens. His little booted feet stepped along in time to the beat, and he now and then hopped to the side to dodge one of the cooks as they stormed past. "Bijebruk, bijebruk, sort the iron from the muck," he chanted, sidestepping a Dwarrowdam with a huge boiling pot rather neatly, before ducking into one of the many side-corridors that led away from the kitchens and up to the upper levels. Bifur followed him. "Pile it in a rattly truck and take it to the fire," he sang, and began to tromp through the halls towards the infirmary.

It had rather a catchy rhythm, and Bifur found himself humming along after a little while.

_[[Gimli's Ered Luin Mining Song reprise, as sung by Gimizh. Composed and Performed by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/77646059237/here-is-the-tenth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this)]_

"What have I told you about that song?" A sharp voice interrupted Gimizh, and he nearly spilled his tray in his fright.

"Oooh, Mum!" he moaned. "You scared the life out of me!"

"You'll live," Gimrís said, amused. She took the tray from her son and balanced it on her hip as she straightened his tunic. "You're not to sing that, you hear me?"

"Uncle Gimli sings it," Gimizh said rebelliously, suffering the fussing with poor grace.

"You're not Uncle Gimli, my akhûnîth, and if he sings any more of his bawdy songs from Ered Luin around you, even your mighty hero will discover that he isn't too old for a drubbing," Gimrís said. "Where are you off to now?"

"I have to collect everything from the council chambers," Gimizh said dolefully. "I hate going up there, Mum. Everyone's so _grim_ an' tense _,_ and the only one who ever smiles is the King."

"Count your blessings," she said dryly. "I have nine wounded in this ward alone, one of them by a fire-arrow, plus a Dwarrowdam in early labour. You could be on infirmary duty."

Gimizh pulled an extraordinary face. "Tense is better than screaming any day."

"Agreed, inùdoy," she said, and she tucked a long lock of his unruly thick red hair back into his braids, before smoothing down the sprouting fuzz at his jawline. "Did you annoy Barur this time?"

"Not too much," he said indignantly. "I was good, honest!"

"There's my good boy," she said, and she held her face to his hair for a moment, breathing in. Bifur tipped his head and sighed. It would be hard for any healer at the best of times, but these days were especially difficult. Injury aside, the normal business of sickness and health did not rest, not even for war. Gimrís' extraordinary beauty was worn thin with weariness, and her glorious dark eyes were almost swallowed by black rings. There was blood on her apron. "There's my darling boy."

Gimizh's hand reached up and grasped his mother's braid for security, and mother and son stood there for a moment in silence.

Then Gimrís straightened and let out a breath full of resignation. "All right, you had better not keep those stuffy old white-beards waiting. Stay here for the tray, darling one, I won't be long."

She disappeared with the soup, and Gimizh bit at his lip as he waited, kicking at the walls for a minute or so. Then he glanced either way down the hall, his eyes guarded, and his hand dipped into his pocket and brought out a somewhat crumbled cookie.

"Barur is not going to be pleased," Bifur told him as the Dwarfling gobbled it down in three swift bites, licking the crumbs from his palms with a little pink tongue. "I can tell you from past experience not to underestimate an Ur with a ladle."

Gimizh brushed off his hands as quickly as possible, and was looking as innocent as a newborn lamb when his mother reappeared with the empty tray. "Here," she said, sounding harried. "Geri's labour is going wrong, love – I'm needed."

"Is she going to be all right?" Gimizh blurted, and Gimrís ran her hand through her bright and fiery hair. "What about the fire-arrow one?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But the baby doesn't give a chunk of coal whether there's a war on or not. Go on with you now, inùdoy, I'll see you at the evening meal. Don't annoy Barur!"

"I would never!" Gimizh said with offended dignity, and he took the tray and sped back down the corridor.

"It is wrong to lie, my son!" Gimrís called after him, before she tutted and rushed back into her ward.

Bifur winced at the sounds from inside, and then he charged away after his wee cousin. Gimizh was easy to follow, at least. His red head was a beacon as he scurried through the halls of Erebor upon swift feet, his little boots ringing against the rock. Soon enough the halls opened out into raised and lofty paths high in the Mountain's heart, and Bifur began to recognise areas from long ago. Elaborate carvings upon the pillars and polished stone upon the floors announced that they were nearing far grander areas than the kitchens or infirmary. They were making towards the Royal Council Chambers.

Gimizh slowed as the elevated pathway took him into a vast cavern decorated with green stone and black marble, the ceiling vaulted and decorated with golden knotwork. Before him stood a great table, scattered with parchments and papers and ink-pots, and behind that sat the King. Around him argued his advisors and councillors, and the tall odd shape of the Elf stood nearby, his hands waving excitedly as he quarrelled with the Lady Dís.

Dáin visibly brightened as Gimizh drew nearer. "Ah, little cousin," he said in his rough voice. "Come to clean us up, have you?"

"Yes, Sire," Gimizh said, and then he glanced around at the arguing folk. Dís had begun to tap her foot (never a good sign), and Dwalin was furiously hissing at Bomfrís, who was glaring back at him with her jaw outthrust pugnaciously. The Stonehelm's face was red with fury as he barked at Glóin, and the combined noise was utter cacophony. "Um. It's not going well, then?"

  
  
Bomfrís and Gimrís, by [Flukeoffate](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/108872619113/flukeoffateart-bomfris-and-gimris-by)  


"Oh, this is actually goin' fairly well," Dáin said, waving a hand dismissively. "You want to be careful when politics gets too polite, my lad. That's never a good sign, with Dwarrows."

"That's an Elf, though," Gimizh said. Then he reddened.

"Well spotted," Dáin said, chuckling. "I see nothin' gets past you, azaghîth. Perhaps I should make you a member of my Council?"

"Gimizh!" came a voice, and Glóin descended like an overly-affectionate blanket, picking up his grandson and bussing his cheek soundly. The _crack!_ as his back straightened was very, very loud. "There's my fine little warrior! And your majesty could do a damn sight worse than havin' another of our line upon the Council instead of some of the cracked quartz you have to deal with..."

" _What_ did you just say?" demanded a grizzled old Dwarrowdam whom Bifur vaguely remembered as a veteran of the Battle of Five Armies.

"Put me down, Grandpa," Gimizh wriggled in embarrassment, acutely aware that he was now becoming the centre of all attention. "I gotta get the plates an' stuff here and take them back to Barur..."

"Pardon me, I'm sure," Glóin said, grinning as he put the Dwarfling down. "You'll soon be far too big for me to hold, my unday, so let me have it while I may."

"'M too big _now_ ," Gimizh said sulkily.

"This is your grandson?" said a light voice, and Bifur whirled to see the Elf staring at Gimizh with something approaching awe.

Glóin's white head bristled. It was still a very impressive sight to see that vast hair and beard prickle in righteous fury, Bifur thought in admiration. "Aye, my grandson Gimizh," Glóin said - not impolitely, but with a definite undertone of _don't you try a damned thing, you slippery weed-eating bastard._

Laerophen seemed to realise that every Dwarf was now looking at him and not at the youngster. His face remained haughty and smooth, not a muscle twitching at all, but Bifur spotted a slight pinkish tinge to the tips of the pointed ears. "My apologies, Lord Glóin," he said with a slight bow. "I did not mean any insult or threat. It is long since my people have seen a child of their own – the last infant was born nigh one hundred years ago."

Glóin deflated, seeming to shrink like a mollified cat. "Oh. Well, Gimizh isn't the youngest here in the Mountain, not by a long chalk. But he is the youngest of our house. Twenty-five now, aren't you laddie?"

"Yes, Grandpa," Gimizh mumbled, looking up at the Elf with wide brown eyes. Then he blurted, "you are reeeeeeeeally tall. Why don't you have a beard? Were you in a horrible accident?"

Every Dwarf was immediately possessed of a terrible cough.

"Oh Gimizh," Dís sighed, almost inaudibly, and then she tipped her iron-grey head to the Elf. "Our apologies."

But Laerophen did not seem offended in the slightest. He was still looking at Gimizh as though the little fellow were somehow miraculous, and his lip had curled upwards slightly. (Bifur wasn't an expert at reading Elven faces, but that _definitely_ looked a little like a smile. Possibly.) "I take no offense, Lady," he said. Then he turned back to Glóin and bowed once more. "He is a fine child, and you do well to be proud of him."

"Hmm, worth remembering that," Dáin said to himself, and the twinkle in his old, old eyes was bright and merry. "Our children, hmm. Something we have in common at last."

"Zurkur mahabhyûrizu, abhyûrizu," Bifur added.

  
  
Orla in full Blacklock battlegown, by [Jeza-red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/103238678375/mahals-balls-i-got-my-mojo-back-and-all-it)  


General Orla, her dark face as impassive as ever, stepped forward with the long shallow bowls from the mid-afternoon in her hands. "Perhaps I should bring my youngest to Council," she said in an off-hand manner, and ignored the cynical snort that issued from her husband.

"We'd never get a word in edgewise. Frerin's at that age where he's got to point out _everythin'_ ," Dwalin muttered to Glóin, who chuckled.

"Balin?" he suggested, and Orla's lip quirked.

"Worse. We'd never escape the _questions."_

Gimizh lifted his tray so that Orla could place the bowls upon them, and then he began to back away from the suddenly-far-more-calm Council rooms. "Um. I'll be going now," he announced tentatively.

"Be seeing you later, little tinderbox," Glóin said, beaming indulgently. Bomfrís huffed and rolled her eyes (but blushed spectacularly when the Stonehelm tentatively slipped his hand into hers).

"The children of Erebor, conscripted into war," Laerophen said as the Dwarfling juggled his tray and plates, picking up the empty goblets scattered around the room. "The situation is more dire than you had led us to believe. My father..."

"No, none o' that," Dáin said sternly, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Our children do as they must to keep Erebor free. None are placed in harm's way, but everyone in this Mountain, from the youngest to the oldest, does their part."

"But twenty-five," Laerophen protested, seemingly unable to help himself.

"Scuse _you,_ I'm a big Dwarf," Gimizh grumbled, loud enough for others to hear.

Glóin frantically made the sign for _stop_ in Iglishmêk as the surrounding Dwarves struggled to contain their chuckles. Then he scowled ferociously and added, _stop laughing NOW or I will barber you with my axe!_

"Aye, twenty-five," Dáin said, and smiled. The lines around his eyes creased, thick and deep, and he gestured to himself with a wry lift of a white eyebrow. "Wouldn't think it to look at me, but I was only seven years older than that wee fellow when I fought at Azanulbizar. Young ones may be young, but do not discount them or their efforts. They know what is important."

Bifur blinked, and then looked at the old King with new eyes. "You were thirty- _two?"_ he blurted, and then he shook his head. Thirty-two was tremendously – no, _obscenely_ \- young to fight in a battle, let alone become one of its heroes. Then Bifur remembered that Dáin's father Náin and mother Daerís had been lost in that battle, in one blow rendering him both an orphan and the new Lord of the Iron Hills.

"Balakhûn," he said with the utmost respect.

"Lad, I have a task for you," Dáin said, raising his gravelly old voice, and he crooked his finger to call Gimizh back to his side. Gimizh fumbled with the tray for a moment in his surprise, and Glóin took pity on him and caught it before the whole thing fell.

"Do I gotta, Grandpa?" Gimizh whispered.

"'Fraid so," Glóin said solemnly. "That's our King, that is. Go on, I'll sort out the plates later."

"Tell Barur I din't steal no cookies, though?" Gimizh's eyes were perilously wide and shiny.

Glóin chuckled. "Ah, you think I don't know that look? I'll be tellin' no such lies, my wee treasure. Go on!"

Gimizh sighed hugely, a martyred expression on his face. Then he turned and scurried over to Dáin's seat. "What do I have to do?" he said.

Glóin made frantic faces at him.

"Your majesty," Gimizh added.

Glóin deflated with a massive exhale of breath.

The Stonehelm was valiantly holding back chuckles, and Bomfrís wasn't even trying. She was snickering openly as Dáin chucked the lad under the chin with one old gnarled hand. "Now, no need for formality, young Gimizh and I have an understanding," he said with a smile. "Will you answer me something, my boy?"

"Uhhh," Gimizh glanced around at all the generals and worthies, before giving his frantically-nodding grandfather a panicked look. "Yes?"

"Thank you," Dáin said solemnly. "Do you feel that you are too young to perform your chores and help your friends and family?"

Gimizh bristled in a way so reminiscent of Glóin that Bifur had to cackle and elbow at his old companion. "No fear!" he said scornfully. "I can do it! The kitchens are all right: better than the infirmary anyway. My Uncle Gimli would smash every Orc outside them gates, and I can too!"

Dís let out a small, sad laugh. "Oh, akhûnîth," she said to herself, and lifted her eyes to the high ceiling. "You but make me miss him all the more, you rascal."

At that moment there was a shuddering _boom._

"Another catapult, Northern slopes," Dwalin predicted. "We gotta take out their engines again."

Dáin nodded, and then refocused on Gimizh. "Remember the way to the smithies?"

"I get to go to the forges?" Gimizh brightened.

"Thought you'd prefer that to the kitchens again." Dáin glanced up at Laerophen, who was looking at Gimizh with spellbound fascination. "I need the newest figures from the Queen. And after that, go to the Great-tunnel's mouth. That will be your duty. Leave the kitchens to your friends: you are now my eyes and ears, Bofur's son. I need to know the _second_ your father returns, d'you hear?"

Gimizh nodded furiously, his short tufting braids bouncing. "Yessir!"

"Good lad." Dáin slumped back, and then he eased out his truncated leg and tapped absently at the knee as Gimizh darted away. "Ach, damn this cold. Thorin, m'boy, when do you return to the battlements?"

The Stonehelm glanced at Bomfrís, and then he lifted his blocky chin. "I take the night duty," he said. "The Orcs become more lively in the dark, and..."

Laerophen's tone was slightly less arrogant as he finished, "and Elves see better in the light."

"You barely ate at luncheon. Don't go makin' yourself sick, your mother will skin me," Dáin said bluntly. "You should sleep while you may if you are to stand guard all night. I will take the afternoon duty: watch out for them damned siege towers. They are no small undertaking."

The Stonehelm's head snapped up. "Adad, you should not..." he began, his Durin-blue eyes beginning to snap with worry.

"Hush, inùdoy, I have fought more battles than I care to remember. Will you tell me not to defend our home while my armour still fits and my hands still hold my axe?" Dáin raised both his eyebrows as he waited for an answer that did not come. The Stonehelm stood silently, and then his gaze dropped in acceptance. "Thought not."

"I need to find Mizim," Glóin said, looking down at the tray in his hands. "She's been defending Ravenhill since early light."

"Aye, go to your wife," Dáin nodded, and then glanced over at the grizzled Dwarrowdam. "And you, Genild?"

"Don't look at me, my wife won't thank me fer interrupting her," she grunted.

Dáin let out a soft, "Hah! Any news from the Eastern slopes?"

"Nothing. No movement on the plainlands, no engines either. The River Running takes care o' any frontal attacks," she said.

"Good. Then we adjourn," Dáin said, and he sighed. "Right, someone get my foot. Damn thing's fallen down again."

Bifur scrunched up his nose as Dís slowly bent to pick up the contraption and hand it back to the King. It was alarming to see how stiff she was becoming – how stiff they were _all_ becoming. Though Dwarrows rarely grew frail with age and generally became as tough as old teak, just like teak they were stiff and unbending and creaky.

He turned to see Bomfrís gently tug at a lock of the Stonehelm's thick black hair. "I have to go," she said softly. "I have to take over from Mizim."

"Stay safe," he murmured and kissed her rough, scarred hand. "I will see you in the morning."

"Not if I sneak into your chambers again," she said, her hand clasping tightly around his. "Perhaps I should. Perhaps I will surprise you when you return from the Northern battlements – and you _will_ return from the Northern battlements, Thorin. I will stick you with every arrow in my quiver if you don't."

"When do you _not_ surprise me, my heart?" he said, a little dryly, and she smiled, her eyelashes dropping and fanning over her eyes.

Bifur tipped his head. "Ach, âzyungâlhith," he cooed at the pair. Then he wondered what Ori was doing, and if he could convince him to indulge in a rest - and maybe a little snuggle or two. He shouldn't work every minute of every day that Mahal sent: it wasn't good for him. No wonder the poor Dwarrow got so flustered over his much-maligned schedule.

The Council was dispersing. It was anyone's guess what had actually been decided, but it appeared that the purpose had been to share information (and ARGUE over it) rather than create new plans. Their strategies had already been made: now was not the time to second-guess them. Bifur glanced about as Glóin moved past him, tray in hands, and Orla's silent shape glided towards Dáin's side, professional and taciturn as always. The Elf turned upon his heel and began to walk along the teetering raised paths, his robe billowing out behind him. Bifur paused and frowned after him.

That was not the way to the quarters set aside for the Elven archers.

Curiosity defeating his better judgement, he shrugged and followed after the Elf.

After a few turns, it appeared that Laerophen was making his way towards the smithies. Bifur's eyebrows shot up. Was he in need of more arrows? The answer presented itself after another turn, and the short bobbing shape of Gimizh could be seen ahead.

"Ooohhhh," Bifur breathed out, and then he glanced up at the Elf. "You are fortunate indeed that Gimrís is not around. She would have you on the points of her knives."

"Young one!" Laerophen called, but Gimizh did not appear to hear him. He was singing again, an equally scurrilous little song that involved a hop, step and a kick upon every second word. "Young one!"

Gimizh stopped and whirled around, his hand held behind his back. Then his eyes widened. "Oh. Hullo?"

"Greetings," Laerophen said, and then he stood there, apparently at a loss for what to say next.

Gimizh waited a moment, and then he said, "Are y' lost? Because that's fair, I used to get lost. But I got better. Still, I'm a Dwarf, I can find my way underground. Bet you're not used to it much. Do you bang your head a lot?"

Laerophen's mouth twitched, and then he actually smiled. It was faint and unpractised, but it was there. "My home is underground, little one. I am not so unaccustomed as you might think. I wondered if perhaps you and I might seek the Queen together," he said with a little incline of his fair head. Bifur squinted at him. The older brother of Legolas looked more like Thranduil than the youngest prince, with an almond-shaped face and thick brows. His eyes were blue, but his hair was pale gold, nearly the silver of the Sindar and not the darker colours of the Silvan Elves.

"You beat Bomfrís at the archery butts," Gimizh accused him. "I lost my Dwalin toy to Wee Thorin because of you."

Laerophen looked confused. Bifur didn't blame him. "Ah...my apologies?"

  
  


_Gimizh and Laerophen, by[Jeza-Red](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/76926790738/you-beat-bomfris-at-the-archery-butts-gimizh) _

"Well, it turned out all right, 'cos I got a better one. Of my Uncle Gimli. He's on a _Quest_ ," Gimizh said, his chest puffing out. "Quests are better than crummy ole sieges any day."

"So it is your uncle who walks with my brother," Laerophen murmured, and he bowed his head to the little Dwarrow. "We are both bereft of a loved one. Will you walk with me and keep me company in their absence?"

Gimizh looked dubious, but he shrugged anyway. "All right then," he said, and brought his hand out from behind his back. There was another crumbled cookie in his hand. "Want some?"

The tall, haughty Elf bent and carefully broke away a piece of the cookie. "My thanks," he said gravely.

"S'all right, I can always get another one," Gimizh said, and he stuffed the rest in his mouth. "Viss 'ay," he added through the crumbs, and began to trot back down the corridor.

Bifur watched the Elf gingerly put the corner of the cookie into his mouth, and grinned as the blue eyes widened in pleased surprise.

The smithies were just as massive and awe-inspiring as Bifur remembered. The huge foundries hissed and smoked like sleeping dragons, and everywhere rang the sound of hammers and the shouts of workers. Dwarves were everywhere, working as busily as ants. He shaded his eyes against the glare of superheated metal.

"You gotta go through them to get to the workshops," Gimizh yelled over the din. "It's great fun!"

Laerophen did not appear to agree.

Gimizh trotted out a few feet, and the Elf's breath caught in horror. A Dwarrow was walking past carrying a massive bundle of swords, and another was charging through with a bucket of foul-smelling water, and yet another was lifting glowing red chunks of metal into the air to be smashed into shape by the gigantic foundry-hammers. Into the chaos walked the Dwarfling, quite unconcerned.

"Come on!" he shouted. "It's all right! Nobody's gonna hurt you!"

Laerophen's mutter was clearly audible to Bifur. "And what of _you,_ little autumn apple? Do these scurrying moles even see you there?"

"Watch an' learn," Bifur told him.

It was like a dance. Bifur remembered it well, from his years of mining. Each Dwarrow knew where they were to be, and any change was instantly noted. The utter familiarity of the work and workplace meant that the smallest difference was as jarring as a wrong note in a well-loved song. Though the concentration never wavered, the steps moved in response to that lingering wrong note and the dance would begin anew. The movement, the work, the utter trust in your fellows, the ring of metal upon rock – Bifur had not expected to miss it.

Laerophen's alien eyes swept the massive cavern, taking it in. The moment he understood, his whole demeanour shifted slightly - only slightly, but Bifur somehow perceived that it was profound nevertheless.

"Nan belain," breathed the Elf, and then with a whirl of silvery hair and beetle-green robes, Laerophen joined the dance.

"That's it!" Gimizh hollered from ahead. "Now you've got it!"

The Elf span and ducked and whirled gracefully, almost reminiscent of Legolas with his knives. Around him, the Dwarves moved in perfect concert. Laerophen's superior detachment had utterly vanished. Instead of the stern concentration of battle or the haughty and impassive disdain he customarily wore, he was smiling.

"I will beg your forgiveness," he said, laughing in delight as they reached the other side of the vast cavern. "It is indeed great fun. I doubted you."

"You hadn't done it before," Gimizh said, out of breath and beaming widely. "Maybe you're not so weird: you did good for a first time. Come on! Weaponshop's this way."

Still smiling, Laerophen followed without complaint or hesitation.

  
  
Laerophen and Gimizh, by [ Flukeoffate ](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/81136163441/laerophen-and-gimizh-dancing-through-the-forges)  


Like Barur, Queen Thira had her own workspace. Her forge was a place of dedication, of extreme virtuosity in the mediums of metal, jewels and wood. Smaller and far hotter than the huge foundry-room, her smithy had been overrun by the war. Instead of works of fantastic beauty and exquisite detail, now hundreds upon hundreds of undecorated (but finely-balanced and razor-sharp) weapons marched from her doors in neat and orderly rows.

Gimizh shaded his eyes against the glow from the open forge, and then began to trot through the long tables that lined the smithy. "There she is," he said, pointing towards a far workbench where two Dwarrowdams sat, their heads bent over something. Another sat at the same table, not far away.

Laerophen and Bifur trailed after their little guide.

As they neared, Bifur could hear the Queen saying, "no, that won't do. The shaft must be longer, remember?"

The diminutive blonde Dwarrowdam beside her leaned back upon her stool and pushed her glasses up onto her head. "But highness, we are running out of suitable wood," she growled, and then she saw the Elf approaching. "Speak of the problem and lo! It appears!"

Queen Thira, her thin face smeared with grease, stood abruptly. "Lord Laerophen," she said in her quiet voice. "What brings you here?"

"A small messenger," he said, gesturing before him.

"Hullo, your Queenness," said Gimizh without any trace of self-consciousness. "Me again."

"Ah, you scamp," she said, relaxing a little and rolling up one of her sleeves where it had begun to slip down her arm. "A message?"

"The King wants the latest figures," Gimizh said, pulling at his fuzzy sideburns as he watched the other Dwarrowdam pick up her work and return it to a lathe. "He sent me here 'stead of back to the kitchens, which is good because Barur's prob'ly gonna be cross with me."

"Cookies again?" said the Queen. "Really?"

"Not my fault they're so good," Gimizh said peevishly. "How a fellow's s'posed to stop himself, I don't know."

Laerophen looked rather confounded at the realisation that he had partaken in a pilfered cookie.

Bifur tried very, very hard not to burst into undignified giggles.

"I see the young one has managed to garner some fame already, and at such a tender age," Laerophen said, his voice a little strangled.

"Half of Erebor knows Gimizh son of Bofur. If he were old enough for an appellation, he would be Gimizh Cookie-Thief," agreed the Queen. "Hold there, young one, I shall have the tallies shortly. What brings you here in such infamous company, Lord Laerophen? Surely an Elf cannot be comfortable in our foundries..."

"He danced the dance," said Gimizh with a dismissive little wave. "He's all right. Barís, whatcha doing here?"

  
[ ](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Unlikely-Allies-502161270)  


_Unlikely Allies, by[muse-ical](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Unlikely-Allies-502161270) _

Bifur looked up. The nearby Dwarf sharing the table was indeed none other than the celebrated singer, Barís Crystaltongue. She pushed herself up, straightening her back out of its hunch. Before her lay a small pile of arrowheads, and beside her was a bundle of straightened wooden sticks. "Cousin Gimizh," she said, and winked at him. "What do I get for not turning you in to my brother immediately?"

"Aw, Barís, c'mon, have a heart," Gimizh moaned, and then he scurried beneath the bench to give her a brief and cursory hug. "There?"

"I don't know, that wasn't nearly payment enough," Barís said, her marvellous voice solemn and her eyes twinkling. Gimizh growled under his breath, and then gave his eldest cousin a far more substantial hug. "Better. Consider it settled."

"Dunno why everyone's so big on hugs anyway," Gimizh muttered, and he ducked his head away as Barís scruffed at his hair. "Gerroff!"

The Queen covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile. "I'll see to the reports. Wait here." In a whirl of black and silver braids, she was gone into the cacophony of the foundries beyond.

"So what _does_ bring you here then?" asked the blonde Dwarrowdam. Bifur could not help but notice that Barís' eyes snapped to her the instant she spoke.

"I have come to offer my help, if I can," Laerophen said with a short bow. "I am not a craftsman in the way of your people, but I can carve a bow and fletch arrows well enough."

"Don't you have better things to do?" the Dwarrowdam said archly.

"I would prefer to be walking beneath the stars and in the open air, now that you speak of it, but since that is denied me all I may do is eat, fight and argue," Laerophen said with a note of testiness in his voice. "I have found your library lacking in works of a civilised tongue, and I have no skill at healing. But if my offer is _unwelcome_..."

"Hmmph." The blonde crossed her arms. "You bite when prodded, don't you? Well, I needed to ask a question anyway."

"Ask," Laerophen said shortly. Gimizh frowned at him.

"What happened? You've gone weird again. Stop it, I don't like it."

Barís cleared her throat. "He'll nag," she murmured. "Fair warning."

Laerophen softened as he looked down at the Dwarfling. "My apologies," he said in a gentler voice, and his eyes flicked back up to the blonde Dwarrowdam. "I find that the lack of starlight and birdsong has had a detrimental effect upon my temper at times."

The blonde immediately dismissed the matter as unimportant, and pulled her work towards her. "On to more relevant things," she said with a touch of impatience. "See here! We are running out of the lighter wood for the arrows, and we have no way of replenishing our stores. Yet your longbows need a longer arrow than ours. Would I be able to replace some of the shaft with an alloy of bauxite? It is light and durable..."

Laerophen frowned. "Is it comparable to the ash we have been using? Too different, and the balance will be destroyed and all accuracy lost."

"I can try," said the Dwarrowdam, also frowning at her work. Then she seemed to realise that she had not introduced herself. "Oh, Bani, by the way. Bani daughter of Bana."

  
  
Bani daughter of Bana, by [renvsner](http://renvsner.tumblr.com/post/103879487844/bani-daughter-of-bana-rough-copy-i-hope-i)  


"Perhaps you could make a prototype," Barís suggested.

"Yeah, possibly," Bani said, distracted. She flipped her glasses down over her eyes and selected one of her arrows with a practised eye. "I hate metalwork," she muttered, and picked up a long thin whittling knife.

"Perhaps my brother Bibur could help. He works with the metalcasters. I could ask," Barís tentatively said, and Bani nodded absently.

"Right, yes, good idea. Thanks Barís."

Barís' face broke into her warm, lovely smile. "You're very welcome."

It was a shame Bani did not look up to see it.

  
[](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/77175078280/baris-and-bani-from-chapter-29-of-sansukh)  
Barís and Bani, by [Remyblue ](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/77175078280/baris-and-bani-from-chapter-29-of-sansukh)  


* * *

"Kíli. I would speak with you."

Kíli looked at Thorin with concerned eyes, his hands gripping tightly around the haft of his sword. Across from him, Fíli lowered his twin blades slowly. The two young Dwarrows were panting slightly, a thin sheen covering Fíli's brow and sweat matting Kíli's hair from their sparring.

"Thorin," Fíli said, before blinking. "Are you all right? Your face..."

"I would speak with you," Thorin repeated, and internally he chastised himself for the harsh note in his voice. "Kíli. Walk with me." It came out as a rough command rather than a request, and Thorin winced and added, "if you can spare me your time."

"Of course," Kíli said immediately, sheathing his sword at his back and coming forward.

Fíli glanced between brother and uncle several times, his forehead creasing. Nevertheless, he span his swords once before sending them plunging into his weapons-rack with a practiced flick of his wrists. "Do you need me?"

"I will talk to you later, namadul," Thorin promised, and briefly cupped Fíli's golden head with his palm. "We will make time for each other. I swear it."

Fíli did not seem jealous and he nodded, eyes darting to Kíli's with some sort of meaningful expression.

"I know, I _know,"_ Kíli muttered, and he pushed at his brother's shoulder with his own. "Get away, you awful bore."

Fíli grinned broadly, and then Kíli was tugging at Thorin's sleeve, his chin out-thrust and his lips pressed together as he dragged the older Dwarf from the practice-room.

"What was that about?" he asked, allowing Kíli to tug him where he would.

"Fíli thinks he's funny," Kíli grumbled, before being jerked forward abruptly as Thorin dug in his heels, stopping where he stood _._ "Oof."

Thorin waited, knowing his nephew would get the message eventually.

Kíli yanked at Thorin's arm ineffectively a couple of times, unable to shift the heavier Dwarf. Then he rolled his eyes and let go, crossing his own arms and looking away. "You want to talk about Elves, don't you?" he said bluntly.

Thorin was so surprised he did not know how to react. His mouth opened, but nothing emerged. He could feel his face drawing into the dark scowl it usually assumed when he was taken unawares.

Thankfully Kíli didn't seem to care. "Fíli's been saying it for weeks now, ever since Nori set up the betting pool or longer – Durin's blood, it might even be ever since Legolas and Gimli made friends," he continued, scuffing his booted foot against the stone floors. "He knew. And I've been so _careful!"_

Still no words came to Thorin, and he could only stare at his nephew silently. Kíli glanced up, and he grimaced at whatever he could make out in Thorin's eyes.

"All right," he sighed. "Let's find a place where Óin or Balin or Great-Grandfather can't come across us. They'd take my beard, such as it is."

"Kíli..." Thorin managed, but Kíli was pulling upon his arm again.

"Your forge," he said. "Come _on_."

Thorin gave up and allowed himself to be towed along once more.

His forge was still a disaster. He had not stepped foot in it for days, not since the night following his destructive rage, and so the floor was still covered in shards of glass and pottery. Scattered everywhere were pieces of bent metal contorted into bizarre shapes.

"Well now," Kíli said, sounding impressed. "How in Mahal's name did you manage to snap a _poker_ in half?"

Thorin growled.

"Right, right," he said, and ran a hand through his perpetually-messy hair. Then he looked down at his feet. "Um. What do you want to know?"

"Legolas," Thorin began, and then he stopped himself. He wiped his hand over his face slowly, and then gently reached out and gripped Kíli's shoulders. Once again, the lad's height and breadth surprised him. Though he knew his nephews were bold and strong warriors, it was so easy - just so _easy -_ to see their small grubby faces peering up at him from his memories: to feel again the warm wriggly clasp of a tiny hand around his fingers.

Kíli's hands were still small, compared to his own. Seventy-seven, barely of-age.

"You had further to grow," he said to himself, before shaking his head. "Sit, my nidoyel. I am not about to interrogate you. That is not my intent, I swear it."

Kíli was looking worried again, but he let himself be led to the workbench. One end was splintered underneath the blows of an axe, but the other end had been severed smoothly by Thorin's sword, and the remnant was structurally sound enough to hold a Dwarrow's weight. Thorin sat him down gently but firmly, before dragging over the wooden pillar that had formed the foot of his anvil and sitting himself opposite.

"Tell me, Kíli," he said, and then took a deep breath before releasing it slowly. "Tell me of the Captain of the Guard. If you will."

The young Dwarf paused, and then his dark eyes closed. "I... don't..."

"You have kept yourself secret for eighty years," Thorin said, and he pushed Kíli's mad snarled hair back again. "Surely you must wish to speak? I have never known you to keep yourself quiet before."

"Hey!" Kíli protested, before he screwed up his face. "Well, I talked to Fee, actually. He was the only one who knew, and who saw and understood, apart from Bofur anyway - and he's still alive. So it was Fíli or nobody, though Grandmother listened now and then - and Dad sometimes – oh, and our Maker - but still, Fee... I probably bored him to tears, to be honest."

"You can talk to me," Thorin said, and when Kíli hesitated again he added, "I will not be angry, namadul. Once, aye, I would have been, but now – no. I am angry, yes. But not at you."

"Somehow I don't think Tauriel is exactly going to be your favourite topic," Kíli mumbled, and he steeled himself as though preparing himself to plunge his hand into fire. "Well. All right. Um... I don't know where to start."

"How did you know?" Thorin prompted, biting back the acid taste upon his tongue. "The Elf, how did you know she cared at all?"

Kíli frowned. It made him look decades older, perhaps giving Thorin a glimpse of the great Dwarf Lord he would have made. "They do care. It is... it's obvious. They feel just as we do, Uncle, though they live so much longer."

"But is that not the issue here?" Thorin pressed. "How can a race so removed from us feel as we do? We are nothing to them."

"That's wrong," Kíli said immediately. "They hold back, for sure and certain. It would hurt, all those years – all those lost and all the losses. It hurts _you_ , over and over, and you only got two centuries... ish. Imagine living ten, or twenty, or a hundred times as long! How hurt you could become, how terrible your scars!"

Thorin scowled.

"So I think they hold their feelings at arm's length, lest they cut too deep," Kíli shrugged. "But I could tell. She looked at me, and I knew she saw me. Me, Kíli. Not just a Dwarf. I knew I had reached her."

"But how were you able to tell?" persisted Thorin, and he leaned back.

He shrugged one shoulder. "The same way anyone can tell. In her face, her eyes." He heaved a silent sigh, his shoulders slumping. "It was all real and true, as true as I sit here and see you. Her face moved just like anyone else's, and her eyes couldn't hide her responses. Her green eyes, green as the forest she loved. They danced, you know. They shone as she listened. She looked at me as though my words had painted a strange and beautiful new world for her. She looked at me, and I knew that she could tell that the stone was more than a stone."

"Surely she did not show such care before you," Thorin scoffed.

"She did!" Kíli flared, and his eyes flashed. "She _did._ She... she laughed."

"Laughed at you?" Thorin growled. His shoulders bunched reflexively as he leaned forward. "How _dare..."_

"No, ikhuzh! She laughed at me, yes, because I _made a joke!"_ Kíli snapped.

"So you were naught but a diversion, an amusement?" Thorin's fists bunched. _How dare she...!_

"That is a lie!" To his detached amazement, Kíli actually _growled_ at him. "Stop it! Stop leaping to the worst of conclusions!"

"I am rarely proven wrong when it comes to Elves," Thorin snapped back, and Kíli's shoulders straightened with a jerk. His whole face blazed.

"You are wrong this time," he snarled. "You say you do not believe they feel as we do – aren't you just parroting their stupid lies about Dwarves? It's wrong! And you are wrong about Legolas too – and you know it!"

Thorin bristled, but he could not help but see the utter conviction in Kíli's glare. His madcap, reckless, beardless and scruffy nephew had never looked so like a proper Prince. His head was held proudly and his shoulders were thrown back, and his face was aglow, fierce fire blazing in his eyes.

"If you really meant it," Kíli continued in a hard voice, "before, when you said you would listen? Then _listen!"_

Thorin swallowed his anger, bubbling slowly and hotly somewhere underneath his stomach. He inclined his head and gestured for Kíli to continue.

Kíli kept his hard look upon his uncle for a moment as though checking to see that Thorin would not either interrupt nor fly into another rage. Then he eased back a little, his shoulders curling in on themselves. His breath still came hard and fast. "Right. Right. Tauriel."

"You made a joke," Thorin said through a mouth that felt full of sand. The words tasted unpleasant.

"Right," Kíli said in a far softer tone, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Right. I made a really awful joke. Y'know, the sort of one that we used to try on Gimli and Ori and Mister Boggins. Tried to scare her."

Thorin remembered the teasing. "Gimli knew better than to believe you, and Bilbo learned quickly enough," he said. "What did the Elf do?"

"Her name was _Tauriel,"_ Kíli reminded him, though there was no heat in it. Rather, he sounded wistful. "It means 'daughter of the Wood'. Ori told me that once, after he died. She wasn't afraid of some silly old curse. Her life was surrounded by monsters and dangers and darkness, and her days were spent fighting it. What is a runestone, compared to that?"

"Tauriel, then," Thorin said, and his teeth clamped together tightly. "She laughed, you said."

"Like she'd almost forgotten how," Kíli said, leaning back. His eyes softened. "Like she hadn't for years, and so each laugh was a fresh delight to her."

It was with a hollow feeling that Thorin recognised the yearning in his nephew's voice.

He knew that yearning.

_Damn it all!_

First the love in the eyes of Thranduil's spawn, and now the glow in Kíli's face as he spoke of the Captain of the Guard. Thorin's heart sank into his boots. _Mahal curse it and damn it to eternal night!_ Was there no yearning he could not identify with? Would every sundered lover remind him of his Hobbit? Would nothing – _nothing_ – stay as it was?

He dimly became aware that his teeth were grinding audibly, and he relaxed his jaw with a huge effort.

Kíli went on. "She - she smiled like her mouth had been made for smiles, but had long ago lost the knack of them. She seemed surprised that I would tease her. I was surprised she teased back."

"She... reciprocated," Thorin said slowly, and then he rubbed at his twitching eye. "Of course."

"She was funny," Kíli said, and he smiled again; not his usual mischievous grin, but a soft smile full of sadness. "She really was. Took what I threw at her and gave it back to me just as good. She thought I was reckless."

"You _are_ reckless," grumbled Thorin. "And then?"

"And then she told me about the stars," Kíli said distantly. "She told me how she walked sometimes, under the trees, beyond the forest, into the night sky where the whole world falls away. There she could leave to touch the starlight so loved by her people, so precious and pure. Like a promise."

"The stars are cold and uncaring," Thorin grunted. Kíli laughed to himself.

"Hah, really? Would anyone in their right mind call Gimli cold? And yet he _is_ a star, isn't he?"

Thorin's mouth snapped shut.

"I told her about the giant fire-moon I saw when I was fifty," Kíli continued, quiet longing in his voice. "She listened. She listened to me, and she smiled as though her mouth held all the secrets in the world."

"She saved you," Thorin remembered.

"She did," Kíli said, and his hands had relaxed and uncurled upon his knees. "Fíli tells me I was babbling something awful when she came to Bard's house and killed the Orcs. Spouting all sorts of rubbish. Must have looked a right berk."

Thorin could imagine – and he didn't want to. "She saved you because of your babbling?" he said sharply. "What did you tell her? Did you reveal anything of the Quest?"

"Nah," Kíli said, and he refocused on Thorin. "I was babbling about her, actually."

Then he heaved a breath and looked down at his hands. His ever-ready smile fell, and his face grew long and drawn. "I _always_ babble about her. Or I would. If I could."

Thorin held his tongue and met his nephew's eyes fully – and then he sucked in a breath. Seventy-seven was so very young, but Kíli seemed old and shrunken in a way he had never seemed before. Only one thing could hurt a Dwarrow in such a way, leaving no tangible mark. His nephew had truly found his One, and then he had truly lost her.

And for Thorin's sake, he had kept his love secret.

"Namadul," he said, stunned, and then he stood and pulled his nephew close. "Come here."

Kíli went obediently into his arms, but he held himself rigid and tense. Thorin winced internally.

"Kíli. I am sorry for my suspicion," he said, and smoothed back the rough, thick fringe that fell over Kíli's brow. "I am sorry. Forgive me."

Kíli's breath caught.

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut for a second. _I am not my pride. I can admit my wrongs. I have learned my weaknesses, my Bilbo._ _Âzyungel_ , _best beloved, I once longed to show you how I have changed. Must I now learn to eat hot coals as well?_

He let his breath ease slowly from his lungs, and opened his eyes. The young Dwarrow in his arms stood uncharacteristically still and silent, and the last of Thorin's questions and objections dissolved like mist in sunlight. This was _Kíli_. This was his loyal nephew, his unday, who had followed him into death protecting him with his last living breath. This was the Dwarf who constantly petitioned their great Maker for the sake of Thorin's lost love, not his own. He pressed a kiss to the wild dark head. "I am not like you," he murmured. "I cannot see such things as you can, though I try. I must fail time and again, it seems. You have stood beside me for all these decades, supported me through every turn, every black mood, and still you have not spoken. You comforted me when I saw Bilbo for my own at last, and yet you yourself have kept your silence all these years... in fear of _my_ anger. Kíli, I have been blind."

There was a small noise pressed against his chest, as though Kíli were stifling a sob.

"I must ask your forgiveness yet again, nidoyel," Thorin said into Kíli's hair, and sighed again. "I must hope you have enough left in you."

"Of course I do, shut up," Kíli said, muffled and thick-voiced. His hands gripped at Thorin's biceps tightly enough to bruise. "I forgive you, all right? Just..."

"Do not hold your silence any longer, Nathânûn," said Thorin, and he turned the impish face up to his. "She laughed. She laughed for you, Laughing River." He smiled ruefully. "Of course she did. What else would she do?"

Kíli froze, and then his hands twisted in Thorin's tunic-sleeves. "I knew," he said with a little hitch in his breath. Then the words came in a flood. "I knew it was her, and that I was meant to find her and know her. I did not believe it. It could not be her, I could not know it so soon, so quickly. I knew that I wasn't made for such things – to walk amongst the starlight and touch the very sky – but she spoke and I could _see it._ She spoke and it was like a spell! I lay delirious and the world span in circles, and she spoke and I knew it was her, though she was an Elf and I was a Dwarf, and you and Smaug and Thranduil and a million terrible things lay between us. I knew. I _saw_ , Thorin! I could see the light that was hers, shining all around her like the glow of the moon, brighter than gems, brighter than the Arkenstone! And I thought that maybe it was – just maybe, she could..."

Thorin held his nephew tightly as Kíli spoke into his chest, his grip threatening to tear the sleeve from his arm.

"But it was all a dream," Kíli said bitterly, and his head fell against Thorin's shoulder. "It was all a dream. Now death itself lies between us... and I will never know if she could have loved me. I will _never know._ "

Thorin pushed his anger and suspicion away. They had no place here. He carefully drew Kíli even closer. "Ah, no. I cannot believe that," he said, as gently as he was able. "You are easy to love, Kíli."

"She's dead, though," Kíli said in a tiny voice. "She's dead, and I'm dead, and I will never know if she will find me again when the world is remade. I will never know."

"She is a hunter," Thorin said. "And whatever else they may be and do, Elves do not forget. They cannot. So hold onto your hope and your laughter, my unday. She will laugh for you again, I swear."

"I hope so," Kíli mumbled. "It's too late, though. Too late."

"Aye, I know that feeling well," Thorin said, and lifted Kíli's chin to meet his eyes again. "I know how it feels to be too late."

"Yes, I suppose you would," Kíli said faintly. His brow creased. "How are you not angry right now?"

"Look around you, namadul," Thorin said dryly.

"Oh. Oh, right."

 _It is not too late for Gimli,_ came the sly, intrusive thought, but Thorin turned it aside. That could wait. Kíli had waited far too long.

"Kurdulu belkul, my bright little gem," he murmured. "You will see her again. You will laugh together once more."

"You don't think that," Kíli said against his shirt, his breath hot through the fabric. "You would have hated her. You hate Elves. You utterly, utterly hate them."

Thorin was silent.

Then Kíli's head whipped up and he stared at his uncle with wide, red-rimmed eyes. "You _don't_ hate them?" he said in a half-whisper.

With aching finality, Thorin closed his eyelids and felt the last of his hatred blow away, useless and tattered.

Kíli's muttered oath was utterly astounded. "But..."

"I will forever despise Thranduil for what he did not do," Thorin said, and the words were ashes and dust in his mouth. "I cannot forgive him for the thousands of children left starving after the Dragon came. I cannot forgive him for his petty revenge upon our family that cost us so many lives. He may be patient in the way of his kind, but I am a Dwarf of the Line of Durin and I do not forget. I cannot find it in me to change so much, not even for Bilbo, not even over eighty years."

"But _Elves,"_ Kíli said, gripping Thorin's forearms even tighter. "Elves, though?"

Thorin clenched his eyes shut even harder, and then he shook his head roughly. "No," he said shortly, and with that tiny word a terrible heavy weight lifted from his shoulders, a weight he had never even noticed.

He blinked to regard his nephew standing before him. His merry, rash and bold nephew, who had loved an Elf and who had never seen his love realised. A bond unfinished; strangled; half-born.

Just like Thorin's.

Kíli was gawping at him, his mouth hanging open and his face completely, utterly thunderstruck. "I... I do not hate them," Thorin repeated in dawning realisation. "I do _not_."

Oh, but he felt so light.

* * *

"First Ents. Now _this_ ," said Lóni, his face white as chalk.

Frár took his hand and held on tightly, lost for words.

"No one at home will believe this," Sam whispered, his eyes wide and his honest face slack with awe. Frodo lay beside him half-hidden by the scrubby, stunted trees that now grew in what was once Northern Ithilien. His mouth was half-open as he stared up – and up – and _up._

Behind them, Gollum cowered and cringed.

The towering wall of grey wrinkled flesh moved ponderously past their little escarpment like a huge land-bound ship. Men stood on the decks of the giant canopied platforms strapped to the creatures, looking as small as mice compared to their transport. The nearest animal threw back its trunk and let out a deafening brassy scream.

"It's an Oliphaunt," Sam said in wonder.

_Lóni and Frár meet an Oliphaunt, by[hhavenh](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/76816133125/loni-and-frar-meeting-the-oliphaunts-from) _

"No, no! No Oliphaunts, what's an Oliphaunt?" whimpered Gollum, pulling at the thin remnants of his straggly hair as he made himself as small as possible. His massive eyes watered in the sunshine – the "Yellow Face", as he called it. He bit at his thin lips with his few blackened teeth.

Sam cleared his throat and began to recite,

"Grey as a mouse,  
Big as a house,  
Nose like a snake,  
I make the earth shake,  
As I tramp through the grass;  
Trees crack as I pass.  
With horns in my mouth  
I walk in the South,  
Flapping big ears.  
Beyond count of years  
I stump round and round,  
Never lie on the ground,  
Not even to die.  
Oliphaunt am I,  
Biggest of all,  
Huge, old, and tall.  
If ever you'd met me  
You wouldn't forget me.  
If you never do,  
You won't think I'm true;  
But old Oliphaunt am I,|  
And I never lie."

"That," he said, relaxing, "that's a rhyme we have in the Shire. So there are Oliphaunts, and I have seen one. What a life!"

Frodo smiled to himself. Lóni nearly cheered to see it.

"Thank goodness for Sam," he said, slumping back against his husband. "Thought I'd never see Frodo smile again."

Frár glanced at Lóni, and then gently kissed the backs of his fingers. "It is a fine thing indeed, to have someone who makes you smile," he said in his deep, quiet voice.

"Sap." Lóni grinned down at his shorter, darker lover. Then he looked back up at the massive creature, shaking his head. "Look at those Men! Red paint on their cheeks, black hair and eyes, red cloaks, and their flags are red too. And they wear gold, lots of gold; rings and earrings and arm-cuffs. Round shields like the Rohirrim, but covered in spikes! And those tattoos – I thought Dwarves were the only folk to practice the art?"

"Perhaps they learned it from the Dwarves of the south," Frár said, frowning. "Orla Longaxe is the only Dwarf of the Orocarni to make her way so far north in centuries, but surely the other four clans still thrive."

At that moment, Gollum's fear appeared to overcome him completely, and he scampered away into the undergrowth.

Frodo's smile fell immediately. "Sméagol?" he called as loudly as he dared. "Sméagol?"

"Mister Frodo!" Sam said suddenly. "I just realised – I forgot to put our fire out!"

"Sam, no!" Frodo said, grabbing at his friend's cloak, but as he reached out a strange hissing slithering sound echoed through the air. Then all at once the sky was full of arrows and Sam stumbled back into the scrub, his breath coming fast.

"We've lingered here too long," Frodo said, and he pulled Sam closer and together the Hobbits crawled deeper into the ferns and crouched there, listening. "Who is it who attacks the Southrons?"

"Can't rightly say," Sam whispered. "I didn't see 'em."

"I thought I heard voices," Frodo said, and he fumbled for Sam's hand. "Hush now, Sam-lad!"

Sam held his breath, and so did Lóni and Frár.

There were indeed voices, and the heavy footsteps of Tall Folk approached their little escarpment. Shouts and the ring of steel echoed over the small valley, and then an Oliphaunt screamed again, accompanied by the death-cries of a dying Man. Frodo's eyes were wide and white-rimmed, but Sam's were screwed shut tightly.

"Let's go see," Lóni whispered.

"We don't have to whisper," Frár reminded him. Lóni gave his husband a dirty look, and together they crept out from underneath the ferns.

"Gondorians," Frár said, staring at them.

"A scouting party?" Lóni wondered. "But so far into disputed territory! Ithilien has been poisoned by the nearby Tower of Sorcery for centuries. There is little camouflage and little to defend!"

"It was once part of Gondor, though," Frár reminded him. "A thousand years have passed since Minas Ithil reflected the moonlight, but they are here nevertheless. They must not have forgotten."

Lóni let out a breath and stared up at the encircling mountains. Just beyond the nearest peaks lay the Morgul Vale and the city of the Nazgûl – the city that had once been fair and beautiful, built by Isildur himself long, long ago. "It seems that in some ways Men are more like Dwarves than we realised," he said, feeling a rush of sorrow and understanding. "We cannot leave behind our ancient homes any more than they can."

Frár's mouth quirked in wry appreciation for the irony. "Let us hope it will not cost them as much as Khazad-dûm has cost us."

"Here is where the smoke came from!" came a shout very close by, and Frodo and Sam shrank back even further. "This is no Harad-camp!"

"If they even _touch_ my stewed coneys," Sam muttered, to be silenced by Frodo's sharp jab to his side.

"Twill be nigh at hand, surely. In the fern, no doubt. We shall have it like a rabbit in a trap."

Sam bristled silently.

"We shall have to learn what kind of thing it is," said a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. It was lordly and kind and proud, but weary as only one who has known long years of hardship, war and disappointment can be. "Move in."

At once four men came striding through the ferns from different directions, and Sam and Frodo were effectively trapped. They huddled together and stared up as the new Men were revealed, whipping out their little swords and standing back to back.

The faces of the Men were clearly astonished. Tall they were, and two carried long spears whilst the other two carried longbows. They were clad in green and brown of all different hues so as to blend in with the blighted land around them. Their faces were masked to the nose and they wore hoods, but their eyes were visible and very keen and bright.

"What is this?" said one, amazed. "We have not found what we sought. Not Haradrim, not Orcs, not that gangrel creature – what have we found?"

"Elves?" said one, his eyes fixed upon Sting.

"Dwarves," said another firmly, and Lóni and Frár snorted in unison.

"Nay," said yet another Man – the tallest yet – as he approached. His grey eyes were fixed upon the two Hobbits, and he pulled down his kerchief from his face as he neared. His voice was the lordly one they had heard, and it seemed that he was the chief of their band. "These are not Dwarves, they have no beards. Nor are they Elves: Elves do not walk in Ithilien these days. And Elves are wondrous fair to look upon, or so t'is said."

"Meaning we're not, I take you," said Sam sourly. "Thank you kindly. And when you've finished discussing us, perhaps you'll say who _you_ are, and why you can't let two tired travellers rest."

"Pert," remarked Frár, amused despite the severity of the situation.

"Deserved it," grunted Lóni.

The tall man laughed grimly. "I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor," he said. "And there are no travellers in this land: only servants of the Dark Tower or of the White."

"We are neither," said Frodo. "And travellers we are, whatever Captain Faramir may say."

"Then declare yourself and your errand," said the Man sternly. "This is no place for riddling or parleying. Come! Where is the third of your party?"

"The third?"

"Yes, the skulking fellow. He had an ill-favoured look. He gave us the slip by some fox-trick."

"I do not know where he is," Frodo said, drawing himself up straighter. "He is a chance companion met upon our road, and I am not answerable for him. If you come across him, I beg you to spare him – he is a wretched creature, but I have him under my care for a while."

"And why would such a creature be under your care in such a dangerous place?" Faramir bent closer. His face showed no signs of relaxing. It had been long years since the Men of Gondor had trusted strangers, even ones as seeming harmless as a pair of Hobbits. "Why are you in Ithilien at all?"

Sam's hand tightened around the hilt of his little dagger. "Mister Frodo," he said, quick and soft and urgent. Frodo lifted a hand to stop his friend, before turning back to Faramir and squaring his shoulders.

"We are Hobbits of the Shire," he said with a short little bow. "We are not spies nor servants of Sauron. Frodo son of Drogo is my name, and this is Samwise son of Hamfast."

"His bodyguard?" Faramir said.

Sam bristled. "His _gardener_."

Frodo laid a comforting hand upon Sam's arm before turning back to Faramir. "We have come by long ways – out of Rivendell, or Imladris as some call it..."

Here Faramir started and grew intent. Frár nudged Lóni and pointed to the Man's sudden close attention.

"That means something to him," he said. "Rivendell. What could this be?"

"Aye," Lóni muttered, and wrinkled up his nose. "Don't tell me I have to go running for our mutûk melhekh Thorin..."

"No, I do not think this Faramir means them any ill-will," said Frár, squinting at the man speculatively. "I don't know how... but... does he seem familiar to you?"

"Yes," Lóni said immediately. "And Mahal help me, I haven't the faintest idea _why."_

"Seven companions we had," Frodo continued, carefully lowering and sheathing Sting and lifting his empty hands to show his lack of aggression. "One we lost at Moria, the others we left at Parth Galen by Rauros-falls. Two were my kin, a Dwarf there was also, and an Elf, and two Men: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor. Perhaps you knew him? He said he came out of Minas Tirith, a city in the South, and often did he speak of it with longing."

"Know him!" Faramir exclaimed.

"Boromir!" all the other four gasped. "You were of his party?"

"Boromir son of the Lord Denethor," Faramir continued, and a strange look came into his eyes. "You came with him? That is news indeed, if it be true. Know, little strangers, that Boromir son of Denethor was High Warden of the White Tower and our Captain-General, and sorely do we miss him, all of us. What had you to do with him? Speak quickly, for the sun is climbing and we must leave this place before the Haradrim come to avenge their fallen fellows!"

"Are the riddling words known to you that Boromir brought to Rivendell?" Frodo said cautiously.

Faramir nodded once, sharply, and said:

" _Seek for the Sword that was Broken.  
In Imladris it dwells._

"The words are known indeed," he broke off, and then he looked at the Hobbits with less suspicion. "It is some token of your truth that you also know them."

Frodo swallowed, and then he said, "we are the Halflings that the rhyme spoke of."

"I see," Faramir said slowly. "It could be so. And what is Isildur's Bane?"

"That is hidden," Frodo said, and Sam relaxed slightly beside him. "No doubt it will be made clear in time."

"In time, and not here," Faramir said with another nod, and then he lifted his head and pushed back his hood. Fair hair was revealed, along with a strong jaw and a proud and noble bearing. "We must move on. You are in peril here, and you would not have gone far by field or road this day. We have work in hand. I will leave two to guard you, for your good and for mine. If I return, I will speak more with you."

"Farewell!" Frodo said, bowing low. He surreptitiously nudged Sam and got a grudging "harrumph!" and a cursory bow from the gardener in response. "Think what you will, but we are friends of all enemies of the One Enemy. We would go with you if we could hope to serve you, such doughty Men and strong as you seem, and if my errand permitted it. May the light shine on your swords!"

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Lóni grunted.

Faramir's face barely changed, and with two darting flicks of his sharp grey eyes, a pair of his Rangers broke away to stand underneath a stunted copse of dark bay-trees that clustered nearby.

"Mablung and Damrod will keep you whole and safe," he said, and then he finally smiled. It was tight and humourless, to be sure, but it _was_ a smile. "The Halflings are courteous folk, whatever else they may be. Farewell!"

"Well, now we're in a pretty pickle and no mistake, Mister Frodo!" Sam muttered.

"Yes," Frodo said, and worry was in his voice as he watched the tall Man stride away. "Yes, I am very much afraid that we are."

* * *

"Lower your sword here," Gimli was saying as Thorin blinked in the light of Middle-Earth once more. "You must defend below as well as above!"

Thorin rubbed his face and peered through his stinging eyes at what appeared to be an empty stable, its walls decorated with fine wooden knotwork and the floors covered in straw. No horses stood in the stalls, though the air was filled with their scent. Behind him, Frerin, Haban, Hrera and Frís flickered into existence, their silhouettes edged in gold and silver as the power of the Chamber of Sansûkhul sent them back to the world of the living.

Before him stood Gimli, his axe in his hand. He was not wearing his mail nor his helm, and Thorin frowned. "Do they spar?"

"No, look," said Frís. "He teaches."

Thorin rubbed at his face some more, and gradually the small shape of Merry Brandybuck resolved itself opposite his star. To one side stood Aragorn, his long legs crossed before him and his pipe in his hand. "Why would I ever have to defend below?" Merry grumbled. "It isn't like there are many Orcs who would swing that low."

"Ah, remember the goblins of Khazad-dûm, Master Merry!" Gimli cautioned, and he used the haft of his axe to correct the angle of Merry's little sword. "They were of a height to you and I. Besides, a taller opponent has more reach – and Hobbits wear no shoes. Your feet present a tempting target to any blade."

"You would do well to try a set of boots," added Aragorn. "Surely Théoden will have tanners skilled enough to fit even your feet."

"Sauce!" said Merry indignantly. "Bite your insolent tongue! I am a Brandybuck of Buckland, and I will do no such thing!"

"I think you might have stroked this cat the wrong way, Aragorn," said Gimli, grinning. "As well ask a Dwarf to shave his beard!"

Merry tossed his curly head with a sniff. "Shoes indeed!"

Aragorn gave his quiet grin, his head ducking. "My sincere apologies, Merry."

Thorin smiled as well, before something about the Hobbit's face made him look closer. "Is Merry..." he wondered, and then he shook his head. "He holds back tears, and the others seek to distract him. Look, the redness around his eyes."

"Where is Legolas?" wondered Frerin.

"And where is Pippin?" said Frís, stepping forward to frown thoughtfully at the lone Hobbit. "He is never far from his cousin. It is rare to see them apart."

Thorin's brow knit together as he took in the tightness around the eyes of Aragorn and the pinched cast to Merry's mouth. Even Gimli's jaw was set more tightly than usual. "Something has happened," he said shortly.

Gimli straightened abruptly, and his eyes glowed with gratitude for a moment as he sensed their arrival. Merry took advantage of his sudden distraction to smack him with the flat of his little blade, and Gimli yelped in surprise before his voice lowered into a growl. "Very well, as you were, Master Hobbit! No holds barred!"

Merry gulped.

"Be easy, Gimli," Aragorn said, and he smiled around the stem of his pipe. "No need to damage him."

"I'm the only Hobbit you have, after all," Merry added glumly, and Thorin's scowl deepened.

"The youngest one, where has he gone?" wondered Haban.

"Pippin, aye," Hrera said, her lips pursing. "No doubt some of his nonsense has landed him in water too hot even for him!"

"Peace," Thorin said, watching Gimli's face fall. "Whatever has happened, it is no small matter. We shall find out soon enough."

Hrera gave her grandson a sharp, measuring look, before she drew herself up with a little sniff and gave him a regal nod of agreement. "I am glad to see you are finally showing a modicum of good Broadbeam sense, Thorin darling."

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, really," Merry said, and he looked between Aragorn and Gimli. Misery lined the curve of his little mouth, and his sword drooped in his hands. "But I'm simply not in the mood at all."

"As though your opponent would give a flying-" Haban grunted. Hrera shot her a disapproving look, and the Firebeard Dwarrowdam shrugged unapologetically. "Well? They _wouldn't."_

"It's all right, Merry," said Aragorn gently, and Merry shook his head, curls bouncing.

"I've _always_ looked after him," he said. His chin wobbled. "He's always followed me, everywhere I..."

"Shh, melekûnith," Gimli rumbled, and he laid down his axe and drew the Hobbit into a great bear-hug. "Shh now, brave little Hobbit. Master Pippin will be more than fine. He has the White Wizard to protect him, and soon the walls of Minas Tirith itself! Why, he is safer than we are!"

"Walls wouldn't stop Pip from finding trouble," Merry mumbled against Gimli's chest. "He's a _Took."_

"I find I have to agree with him, if only a little," Frís said. A huffing laugh escaped Thorin, to his own surprise.

"And you never knew my Bilbo," he said wryly. The corner of his lip tugged to the side. "He was infinitely more troublesome... at least at first."

Both Frís' and Frerin's heads whipped towards him, and they stared at him in unabashed shock.

Thorin's smile fell. "What?"

"Do you know," Frerin said slowly, "that I have never heard you speak of Bilbo Baggins without guilt. _Ever."_

A huge smile was spreading over their mother's face, and she fumbled for his hand and squeezed hard. No words escaped her, but her eyes were proud.

"Ah, Merry," Aragorn sighed, and he stood in one swift motion and came to crouch before the Dwarf and the Hobbit. "Tell me, is there anything we may do?"

Merry snuffled into Gimli's shoulder. "You could shrink four feet and grow curls," he mumbled, and Gimli laughed softly and rubbed the Hobbit's back.

"In the absence of a miracle, will a hot drink suffice?"

Merry nodded, his face hidden amongst reddish beard.

"Good. Come, we will leave your swordplay. You improve by leaps and bounds, Merry. Dry your eyes: all will be well, you will see. It is not easy to be the only one of your people amongst strangers, I know. But you are of the Fellowship, and we still stand by your side."

Merry sighed out, long and shaky, and then he pushed away from the Dwarf with a wobbly little smile. "I know," he said, and met his eyes. "I'll be all right."

"There now, brave one!" Gimli said, and clapped his heavy hand on Merry's little shoulder. "Let us go and see what food may be eaten along with our drink. I could do with a meal – last night's ale has left my head full of cobwebs!"

At the mention of food Merry's eyes lit up, and he eagerly turned and began to trot from the stables.

"Ah, Merry?" said Aragorn mildly. "Your sword?"

"Oh." Merry slunk back and picked it up from the straw-covered ground with a sheepish little grin. "Er. Whoops?"

"A good warrior does not leave his weapon," Aragorn told him, smiling, and Merry's face fell once more.

"Boromir used to say that," he said.

Gimli shot Aragorn a warning look, before he turned the Hobbit and pushed him towards the stable door again. "And he would have said that it was time for a sup as well! What cooks in the halls today, Merry?"

Merry's eyes cleared. "I thought I saw a side of beef..." he said, and scurried off once more.

"You know well how to deal with the young and the unhappy, Gimli," Aragorn said as the two walked after the eager Hobbit rather more slowly.

"Nephew, remember?" Gimli said with a grin, before he shook his head. "Ach, poor fellow. It is hard for him."

"Pippin's curiosity has finally gathered the attention of more than goblins or orcs," sighed Aragorn. "If only he had not looked in the Palantir!"

"We must hope that the Enemy thought that he had the Ring," Gimli said, his eyes fixed upon Merry as the Hobbit ducked and weaved amongst the people of Edoras. Many of the Rohirrim smiled and pointed and exclaimed as he passed. The legend of the Holbytla apparently was a widespread one. "We must hope that Frodo's mission remains a secret."

"Gandalf saw no lie in his eyes," said Aragorn, but he did not sound confident. "I should take the seeing-stone. I know I should. But I find that my hand hesitates to stretch out and grasp it, even as my birthright finally comes within reach. Do I dare?"

Gimli glanced up at him. "What are you afraid of, laddie?"

Aragorn was silent, and his head dipped forward.

Thorin, however, understood. "He is afraid of getting everything he ever wanted," he murmured. "What if it is not as he thought?"

Gimli's brow smoothed out, and he nodded in understanding. "Ah," he said beneath his breath. Then he clucked his tongue. "The world changes so swiftly now, and we are left panting as we race to catch up," he said to the air.

Aragorn blinked, and then gave the Dwarf a puzzled look. "Yes, this is true."

"Some things may not turn out the way we supposed," Gimli continued in as innocent a tone as he had ever managed, picking at his thumbnail with the hooked point of his axe. "But then, who is to say if they will turn out for the better or worse? The proof is in living it."

A look of comprehension crossed the Man's face, and he snorted softly and looked back up at where Merry was ducking beneath arms and bales and trays to get to the stairs of Meduseld. "Very wise, Master Dwarf. You have been spending too much time with Elves and Wizards: you begin to sound like them."

"Careful, lad, I'm armed," Gimli growled, and then he laughed. "Once I would have found that offensive. Now? It is one of those things that have proved to change for the better. Though I would fear for my braids should I ever say that in the marketplaces of Erebor!"

Aragorn laughed again.

Then Gimli's face tightened, and he said tentatively, "Aragorn, may I ask you something?"

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow. "I thought you dispensed advice today."

"Aye, today and all days, but none are wise enough to heed it." Gimli dismissed that with a toss of his red head. "No, I am bewildered and worried, and I would know the best way to be of help. I would not cause offence for all the sapphires in all the wide world."

With a small 'ah' of realisation, Aragorn's shoulders slumped. "Tell me this is not what I fear it is..."

Gimli frowned. "I haven't a clue what you're on about, but this regards the Elf."

Aragorn groaned under his breath. "Of _course_ it does."

"You know Elves better than any here, now that Gandalf has gone," Gimli pressed on. "What could be ailing Legolas? Last night he was near tears. I thought it but the ale, but his words came back to me when I sobered. He wishes for something that cannot be, and he bemoans his immortality – an Elf, lamenting his eternal life! No Dwarf would ever believe me – and he will not speak more of it. He has avoided me all day, out of embarrassment no doubt. Aragorn, tell me true: does Legolas love? Nothing else can I imagine that would cause him such anguish."

Aragorn's eyes squeezed tightly closed and he appeared to be praying for patience.

Thorin opened his mouth, but Haban shot him a quelling look. "Don't you _dare,"_ she hissed.

"What?" he hissed back.

"Let him live his own life, dearest," Frís murmured, squeezing his hand once more.

"But..." Thorin bit off the words that crowded on his tongue. _But I hold no anger toward the Elf for the sake of his people. But the Elf is Thranduil's son. But their names sound right together. But he is Thranduil's son. But I know how that longing weighs down a heart. Thranduil's son, the child of the uncaring pale spider of Mirkwood. But he loves him, truly loves him, despite all that stands between them. But he will forget my brave inùdoy once Gimli has crumbled and returned to stone, and Gimli's umùrad will grieve forever in the Halls. But he can walk in starlight - and my star has always shone brightly. But he does not know that a Dwarf's heart, once given, is a loss that cannot be regained._

_But he is Thranduil's son._

_But it is not too late for them, as it is for Kíli..._

_...and for me._

Thorin bowed his head. Confusion tangled his thoughts. "I do not know what to do," he muttered.

"It's good for you," said Frerin, grinning. "Perhaps you'll understand what it is to be like everyone else; muddling through as best we can."

Hrera rolled her eyes and tugged at one of Frerin's braids. "Stop that, don't confuse your brother," she said. "He's not as sharp as you, Frerin-love, and it's not kind to tease."

Thorin glared at brother and grandmother until he heard Aragorn speak again.

"Legolas... cares for someone," the Man was saying carefully. "That much is true. He is saddened because of that someone, and because of mortality."

"Why?" Gimli made a noise of disbelief. "Who would not be astounded and overjoyed to find that the Prince of Mirkwood holds out his heart to them?"

Aragorn looked pained. "That... depends on that someone."

Gimli paused, and then he sucked in a breath. "I am an insensitive lump of coal," he said, and then he patted Aragorn's arm. "I am sorry: I did not think. This is a matter you know well, is it not?"

The Ranger winced, before he sighed loudly once more. "Yes. She... Arwen, she."

"She gave you that jewel," Gimli finished. "Legolas told me, when you were lost."

Aragorn stopped walking, his shoulders growing tense. "She should leave these unhappy shores," he muttered. "She should go. She should not tie her life to mine. Hers is the grace of the Firstborn, and she would risk it all for a hope that I cannot even seem to reach out and grasp."

"Laddie," said Gimli with quiet sympathy, and he placed his hand upon Aragorn's arm.

"She will die, Gimli." Aragorn's eyes snapped up to meet the Dwarf's. "She will die if she stays, for hers is the choice of the Half-Elven. Unlike the rest of her kindred she may choose the life of the Eldar or that of the Edain – and for my sake she would choose a mortal span! She would leave behind her father and brothers, her people, and cleave to me. A scion of flawed lineage, the last and most desperate hope! She would wed me and such joy we would have! But I am but a Man, and I will die - and then she would die, and so the fairest of all Elves will once again be lost to the darkness. Even if she were to listen to my fears and leave these unhappy shores, it is not certain that her life will be saved. For she tells me she may die if she passes into the West, for it is possible for her people to die of love alone."

Thorin sucked in a quick breath that stung his lungs.

"Oh Mahal save us," Frís whispered. "As bad as that?"

"Truly?" Gimli looked alarmed. "Elves may die of love?"

"It is not unheard of," Aragorn said, his face bleak and his brow falling back into lines of pain and weariness. "If they lose their love, they risk their life. It is not like the long slow fading of Elves who have lived for millennia; those Elves leave the world because to bear the weight of their years becomes too much to bear. No, the Elves who die of love simply lay themselves down and their _fëa_ leaves their bodies. Thus they lie as though they merely sleep, for century upon century. They do not age, they do not wither, but they are dead and lifeless nevertheless. They are gone from their flesh, forever seeking after their lost love."

Gimli's face was pale. "That's awful," he said in a hushed, horrified voice.

"You see my dilemma," Aragorn said harshly.

"I do." Gimli closed his eyes for a moment, his chin lowering, and then he looked up to the wooden ramparts of the walls surrounding the city. At the highest point shone a flash of pale gold hair, snapping in the fierce Rohan winds like one of the proud horse-pennants. "I do."

"I would not tie her to Middle-Earth, but her gift is her own, and she will not hear me," Aragorn said in a broken voice. "So I must reach for these remnants of the glorious past, prepare myself against that dwindling hope, and pray that I am not as flawed as my forefathers."

[ ](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/77147711618/sansukh-chapter-29-rough-illustration-of-aragorn)

_In Edoras, by[flukeoffate](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/)_

"Ayamuhud, Aragorn," Thorin said low. "We are all flawed, one way or another. It is for us to choose the manner in which we mend."

Frís' hand tightened on Thorin's until it bordered on uncomfortable. "My brave son," she breathed.

Frerin laced his little fingers through his other hand, though he said nothing, and Hrera was nodding proudly.

Gimli did not look away from golden hair that flew and danced in the breeze and the sunlight. "Well, Dwarves love also, but they do not die of it," he said to himself, and swallowed hard, his whole face hardening with resolve. "And Legolas should not be tied, not to Middle-Earth and not to death."

Aragorn's frown was immediate and his eyes filled with dread, but at that moment Merry waved at them from the doors of Meduseld.

"Come on, you great slug-a-beds!" he called. "I was right: there's roast beef! If you dawdle any longer I shall have eaten your share and you will have to go hungry!"

Gimli let out an amused grunt and began to jog up the hill, his beads clanking together.

"Gimli, what do you mean to do?" Thorin managed as he raced to keep pace.

"Do?" Gimli growled, and the determination in his face was worryingly familiar. Thorin knew it well: he had seen it in the mirror for nigh-on two hundred years. "Why, nothing."

"Gimli..." said Thorin in frustration, "do you mean to say that you _know?"_

"Know what?" Gimli snapped back, and he had never looked so much a Son of Durin's Line. "Must confess, I'm not following you."

Throwing all caution to the winds, Thorin growled, "he loves you, you red-headed young fool!"

Gimli's eyes did not even flicker, though his jaw rippled with tension. "Whomever it is, Legolas will love again. He must. He will not be tied to Middle-Earth: this is a passing fancy and it will fade in time."

"Gimli..."

"Ma katakluti, melhekhel. Sorry, can't hear you. Must be all this running," Gimli puffed, and he bent his head and tore ahead, faster than Thorin could match.

Thorin stopped in his tracks as icy cold realisation washed over him. "He loves him back," he said abruptly. "Oh, Mahal's blood and beard and balls... Gimli loves him _back!"_

And that was when Frerin came barrelling into him and sent them both tumbling to the ground and into the whirling stars of Gimlîn-zâram.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
>    
>  **Khuzdul**
> 
> Ma katakluti, melhekhel – I cannot hear clearly, king of all kings  
> Ayamuhud – blessings upon  
> Balakhûn – power-man  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Haban - Gem  
> Gimli – star  
> Bijebruk - Pick  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Akhûnîth – young man  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Inùdoy - son  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Nath – to giggle  
> ânûn – the river (man)  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Umùrad- soul  
> Melekûnith – hobbit that is young  
> mutûk- Steel  
> melhekh - King  
> Zurkur mahabhyûrizu, abhyûrizu – as you teach, you learn  
> Mizùl – Good luck!  
> Kurdulu belkul - mighty heart  
> âzyungâlhith - young lovers
> 
>   **Sindarin**
> 
> Nan Belain! - By the Valar!
> 
> ...
> 
> Orocarni - The Red Mountains. According to Tolkien's legendarium, three of the seven Fathers of the Dwarves awoke in the west. These were Durin of the Longbeards (who awoke in the Misty Mountains) and the originators of the Firebeards and the Broadbeams, who woke in the Blue Mountains (Ered Luin). The other four clan-progenitors awoke in the Red Mountains, far to the east, and do not appear in any of Tolkien's tales. They included the Stonefoots, the Stiffbeards, the Ironfists and the Blacklocks. In this story, Orla daughter of Ara (wife of Dwalin and mother of Wee Thorin, Balin and Frerin) is a Blacklock Dwarrowdam.
> 
> "Fading" vs "Dying of grief" - these describe the two different ways Tolkien's Elves may perish apart from grievous injury or harm. Elves do not fade when they are dying of grief or love. Instead they lie down and their soul departs their body, which remains young and unchanged. "Fading" refers to when an Elf becomes so old that they literally start to fade - they slowly grow transparent until they disappear entirely. This is, in my opinion, awesomely creepy. :)
> 
> Fëa _ _-_ fëa and hröa_ are Quenya words for "soul" (or "spirit") and "body". The plural form of fëa is fëar and the plural form of hröa is hröar.
> 
> Dáin was indeed just thirty-two when he fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar, and lost his father.
> 
> _Some dialogue taken from the films and from the chapters, "The Black Gate is Closed" and "Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit."_
> 
>   
>   
>   
>  Cookies? What cookies?, by [0-aredhel-0](http://0-aredhel-0.tumblr.com/post/77021625938/cookies-what-cookies-gimizh-laerophen) 
> 
> _I am still stunned beyond words at the support and friendship and enthusiasm I have received through this story. Thank you so very, very much for every word, review and kudos!_


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You can[follow me on tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/) for more updates, the always current and MASSIVE **[Sansûkh Master-Post](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost)** of all fanarts, extra [behind-the-scenes headcanons](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/tagged/headcanony-things), plus assorted fandom madness and stuff!_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  Also, here is the (so far comprehensive, and often-updated) [Sansûkh Cast of Dramatis Personae.](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/76702190373/sansukh-character-listing)
> 
>  **Art and Artiness** (Just gonna list it cos OMFG ERRYONE)  
>  \- [Dwarrowdams of Sansûkh](http://feignedsobriquet.tumblr.com/post/80671798525), by feignedsobriquet  
> \- [Gimizh and Laerophen](http://genayre.tumblr.com/post/79537893309/dwarfling-terror-gimizh-son-of-bofur-takes), by Genayre  
> \- [On My Own (Song Parody)](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/78583343652/talking-with-flukeoffate-and-errandofmercy-really) by notanightlight  
> \- [Loni & Frar (nsfw)](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/78418807905/yes-i-have-a-problem-loni-and-frar-have-burrowed%22) by hhavenh  
> -[Thorin and Frerin at Azanulbizar](http://a-sirens-lullaby.tumblr.com/post/77760751932/you-cant-make-a-promise-you-have-no-hope-of), by a-sirens-lullaby  
> -[Ered Luin Mining Song (reprise as sung by Gimizh, the naughty thing)](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/77646059237/here-is-the-tenth-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-this) by notanightlight  
> -[Dwalin and Orla, Erebor's scariest (and most adorable) couple](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/77484964507/dwalin-with-orla-and-their-children-from), by asparklethatisblue  
> -[Gimizh and Laerophen: what cookies?](http://0-aredhel-0.tumblr.com/post/77021625938/cookies-what-cookies-gimizh-laerophen) by 0-aredhel-0  
> -[Hrera and her tiny grandsons,](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/76927106619/for-some-reason-i-fell-in-love-with-hreraxd-her) by ~~THE SPACE WIZARD~~ Jeza-red  
>  \- [Gimizh and Laerophen](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/76926790738/you-beat-bomfris-at-the-archery-butts-gimizh), by Jeza-red  
> \- [Bomfris and the Stonehelm](http://jeza-red.tumblr.com/post/76926336302/sansukh-of-course-d-young-thorin-stonehelm-and), by Jeza-red  
> \- [Loni and Frar meet an Oliphaunt,](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/76816133125/loni-and-frar-meeting-the-oliphaunts-from) by hhavenh  
> -[Laerophen and Gimizh dance the dance of the forges](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/81136163441/laerophen-and-gimizh-dancing-through-the-forges), by flukeoffate  
> \- [I Dreamed a Dream (Song Parody)](http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/78575629398/oo-ok-so-errandofmercy-and-notanightlight-and-i), by flukeoffate  
> \- [Fris and her young sons](http://injureddreams.tumblr.com/post/78428020435/303-her-boys-back-in-happier-times-fris-and), by injurreddreams  
> \- [The Death of Boromir](http://injureddreams.tumblr.com/post/78300279537/all-he-has-ever-wished-for-is-to-save-his), by injurreddreams  
> \- [Baris and Bani,](http://remyblue.tumblr.com/post/77175078280/baris-and-bani-from-chapter-29-of-sansukh) by remyblue  
> \- [Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas in Edoras, Chapter 29,](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/77147711618/sansukh-chapter-29-rough-illustration-of-aragorn) by flukeoffate  
> \- [Abbad (I Am Here) Fanmix](http://madmanwithajohn.tumblr.com/post/80268244965), by madmanwithajohn  
> -[Even if you cannot hear my voice Fanmix,](http://rowrowrohirrim.tumblr.com/post/81079925456/unfinished-business-mumford-and-sons-dust-bowl) by rowrowrohirrim
> 
> (SEE END NOTES FOR MORE)
> 
> *dies of link overdose*

Orla Longaxe paced, her great tail of wiry black hair sweeping behind her, as the booms and shudders rocked the Mountain. The noise was deafening, and though every door in the room was closed and packed tightly with cloths, it still echoed in the walls and under her feet. In her arms, her second-born son shivered and shook. His eyes were unfocused, and he was frowning and pressing close to her chest. His ears were covered with a dark woollen hat, pulled down low nearly to cover his eyes as well.

In the corner, a little puff of steam came from a great iron pot which bubbled away softly, the vaguely soothing sound meant to combat the rattling thunder of the boulders striking the mountainside over and over again.

Balin could not bear loud noises for long.

Orla tucked her son's head closer to hers, protectively wrapping her hand over his wool-smothered ears. Balin sucked in a breath, his hands clenching and unclenching rapidly and spasmodically, and pressed his face against his mother's neck to hide his eyes from even the very modest light that came from the fire. Her boy was cut from a different stone, as they called it: his thoughts worked in a special and singular way. Many of the greatest works of their people had been made by Dwarrows born with minds like Balin's, their focus as determined and passionate and as single-minded as a blade. She was prouder of him than she could possibly say. Balin was fascinated by the way things worked, by nature and first causes and the pressures under the earth and the creatures that crawled upon it. He would be a great Dwarf, his mother knew.

However, there were difficulties that came hand-in-hand with these unique gifts. Balin was clumsy at times, he occasionally lost his words, he did not enjoy company other than his parents or his friends, and he could not tolerate loud noises or bright lights. The overstimulation was uncomfortable, and sometimes painful.

Unfortunately, Orla was unable to behead every Orc, troll and Easterling beyond the walls for upsetting her son. (Though she had certainly tried.)

Balin let out a small noise of unhappiness as another boulder shattered against the hard northern rock of Erebor, and Orla's fury crested. Damn them. Damn them for laying siege to the home she had travelled so far to find, the people she had grown to love, to the Mountain her husband had bled for. Damn them all for hurting Balin, for scaring tiny little Frerin and for forcing her brave and taciturn eldest lad into the grim work of war so young, so terribly young. Her fingers itched for the long-handled Blacklock axe that had become part of her name. She would spit in the Great Eye of Sauron himself, given half a chance. But for now, it was more important that she stay here, holding her boy, anchoring him to the room and to her warmth and to the soft sounds of bubbling.

It would have to wait.

"Shhhhhh," said Orla, and Balin shuddered reflexively. "Shhhh."

She did not speak. It would not help.

Eventually the barrage stopped, and Orla breathed a silent sigh. It would begin again, of course, but the great siege-weapons had to be reloaded, and that took time. She glanced down at her son. Balin was staring at the tattoos upon her collarbone, his little face intent.

  
[](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/104209125013/a-landscape-made-by-time-sketch-colored-and)  
Orla, by [aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/104209125013/a-landscape-made-by-time-sketch-colored-and)  


"Can you read them for me?" she said, as softly as she could.

Balin did not answer, his eyes tracing the lines over and over. He had drifted into a daydream to escape the onslaught of sound, something that happened more and more often in these tense days.

Stroking the little wool-covered head, Orla continued to pace.

They would pay.

* * *

So. Gimli knew. He _knew_. And he loved the Elf in return.

This... this changed _everything._

"What do we have?" Thorin said curtly as he strode into his mother's workroom. Frís' eyes flicked up to him before fixing back upon the report before her.

"Hello, inùdoy," she said in a distracted way. There was a stylus stuck through her mussed golden hair. "Much has happened, it seems. Gandalf and Pippin have reached Minas Tirith..."

" _Already_?" Thorin could not restrain the exclamation.

Frís looked up. "Apparently, to ride upon the back of one of the Mearas is no small honour. Shadowfax brought them to the White City within a day and a night, and he did not stop once, but kept the same pace the whole way."

Thorin could feel his eyebrows trying to push their way up into his hairline, and tried to school the astonishment from his face. He had owned and cared for ponies his whole life, and he knew the limits of horseflesh. It was rare to find an animal that could canter for longer than an hour or two without requiring water and a rest, particularly when bearing a rider. To pace your animal was a safer option: the same pony could not gallop the whole distance, but would happily and steadily whittle the miles away at a decent trot. To push your pony too fast or too hard meant walking the next day, to allow the poor beast time to recuperate.

To _gallop_ for a day and a night...

"These are days of great deeds of speed and endurance," he muttered, and shook his head in disbelief. "What befell them in Minas Tirith?"

"Ori was worried by their welcome," Frís said, and she rubbed at her brow for a moment. "Gandalf and Pippin were received by the Steward, Lord Denethor. He is a proud and mighty Man with a cunning mind and clear foresight, and in him the blood of Númenor runs nigh-pure, according to the Wizard."

Thorin could see no fault in any of this. "He sounds a proper ruler."

"He knows of the death of his son," Frís said heavily.

A breath escaped him with a whistling sigh. "Oh."

" _Oh_ indeed," she agreed. "Bifur had some far stronger words than _oh_ to add, might I say. Ori was not convinced by the Lord's grief, however. It seems that one as subtle as Denethor can even use his sorrow to shield his true intent. He uses his grief to cloak his questions, gathering more information through tongues made free with sympathy."

"Were they turned away?" Thorin sat down beside his mother, and restrained the urge to take the report from her hands and read for himself. She shook her head, blonde plaits swinging.

"Denethor will not hear the counsel of Gandalf, but he has not turned them away. Boromir's death has not robbed him of all his wits."

"What else?"

"He will not hear of reforging the old alliances," she continued, and grimaced. Thorin wondered when his mother had become so _tired._ "He will not light the beacons to call for aid from Rohan, and to think of sending to the Elves is even further from his thoughts. He seems sunk in despair and yet full of determination, for all that. Ori says his anger is never far from the surface, and it is dangerous and fey when it erupts. Still, the Lords of Gondor have keener sight than lesser Men."

Thorin stared ahead at the intricately carved and jewel-studded walls, and pushed the sudden swooping feeling of understanding aside. He was not his illness and this Lord Denethor was not his reflection, any more than Boromir had been. "Minas Tirith stands alone with naught but its pride for armour, then."

He knew, better than any, how pitiful pride was as a shield.

"The few vassal Lords of Gondor have been called," she said, and clucked her tongue in sympathy. "It will not be enough. Lossarnach and Dol Amroth are but small fiefs, not warrior-clans. They will not have the numbers needed."

"And the city itself?" The picture painted thus far was bleak. It was a marvel the White City still stood under such savage pressure and with so few at her side. No wonder Boromir's desperation had been so fierce and frantic.

"No measures of defence are being put into place –no oil or wood set by, no weapons or reinforcement. The ancient trebuchets still stand in their sconces, but the walls are their best hope now. The city struggles to breathe under the cloak of darkness and smoke that forever fills the air," Frís said, and she leaned her head upon her hand. "A reeking fume blows from the east, Ori writes, and Bifur tells me that even the river is blackened and sick. He could see it from the walls."

Thorin curled his arm over his mother's shoulders. "You need rest."

"In a moment," she said, and yawned. "There is more. Pippin has pledged himself to the service of the city."

His eyebrows leapt up once more, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Pippin? The Hobbit, Pippin? Pippin _Took?_ "

"Is there another Pippin in Minas Tirith? Aye, he wears the black and silver livery of the White Tower," she said, leaning back into him. "Bifur said it made both the Wizard and the Lord quite speechless when he knelt and swore his blade to Denethor. He rather enjoyed the looks on their faces, it seems."

No wonder Bilbo had railed so against his Took side, if such impulsiveness were a family trait! Thorin shook his head and a smile pulled at his cheeks, a wholly inappropriate laugh smothered somewhere in his chest. " _Hobbits."_

"Osgiliath is still being contested, and it is this that poisons the River as far south as Pelargir," Frís went on, and she stifled another yawn. "Frodo and Sam have been detained by Rangers in Ithilien and have been taken to a place called Henneth Annûn, the Window of the Sunset. I do not think this Captain Faramir trusts easily, but Frodo has been making the most of his fine education, Fundin tells me. A trained courtier could not do better. They have been dancing around each other with courteous words for nearly a whole day. And oh, I forgot to say! Balin has ordered a change of shifts."

Thorin frowned. "He has?"

"Well, you were... otherwise engaged," she said, and quirked a sly look up at him. Thorin took that to mean _you were throwing a tantrum like a Dwarfling of thirty,_ and ignored it. "Now that the Dale-Men are mustering, Erebor must hold firm. They must last until the Bizarûnh arrive. The Orcs do not appear to have split their forces yet, and so Dale itself remains safe for the moment."

Then her head fell to her chest, and she took a deep breath. "Thorin... we have discovered who leads the Orcish army."

That did not sound reassuring. Thorin's arm tightened around Frís' shoulders. "Who."

"Dâgalûr," Frís said, exhaling the hard, snapped syllables of Black Speech into the sudden tenseness. Her voice dropped in pitch. "Daughter of – of Bolg."

Thorin's hand clenched into a fist upon his thigh.

"Birashagimi, inùdoy," she whispered, and her small, ink-stained hand rose to smooth over his brow and slide down the side of his face. "Courage, my son."

"It is not I who must face the last scion of that cursed family," he said and it came out as a low, dark growl. "It is not I who must feel the sting of vengeance in my blood."

"But you do anyway," murmured Frís, and she kissed him gently. "I know you, my steely stormcloud."

His throat tightened, and he turned his face away. "Why do they always live, when we die and die again?" he asked the wall, and to his own horror his voice broke upon the last word.

"I'm so sorry," Frís said, and she stroked his face again. "Oh, I am so sorry, my darling one."

He breathed in through his nose and let it out slowly and shakily. He could not fall down into the familiar black chasm of rage and bitterness yet again. Vengeance was no longer his path. The matter of this... Dâgalûr, and of the blood-feud she carried was no longer his to bear. His burden had been Azog and Bolg. Dâgalûr was Dáin's to deal with.

"Strength to your blade, cousin," he muttered, and then he glanced down at his mother once more. Frís was yawning again, trying to cover her mouth with one hand. "You force me to take your role yet again, 'Amad. Go to bed."

"I cannot leave yet," she protested tiredly.

"And why not? You look exhausted. Do you need assistance?"

"No, no," she said, and took his hand in her small one and squeezed it. "I will tell you if I need help, you may be sure of that. But I cannot return to our quarters just at this moment. I must give your father at least another half-hour before I come to bed."

Thorin blinked, and then tried to keep the plaintive note from his voice. "Do I want to hear this?"

"You sound like your brother," she remarked, and then she smiled suddenly, her blue eyes twinkling. "No, your father believes he is being terribly secretive about crafting me my nameday present. As though a blind Dwarrow could not see the scalds on his fingers or the frizzled ends of the working-braids in his beard! But I mustn't spoil my surprise. I don't want to ruin all his fun and hard work."

"Ah." Thorin thought guiltily of the half-finished reading-lamp that sat upon his workbench. He had meant to complete it, but it had taken so very long to clean and mend his half-destroyed smithy (even with the help of Frerin and Víli) that time had simply run away from him.

Besides, his watch beckoned, tempting him always back to the starry waters of Gimlîn-zâram. He would not leave aside his guardianship of Endor for long. Not for all the gold in Erebor.

"Perhaps we might have a cup of tea to pass the time, then?" he suggested, and she smiled at him.

"That would be lovely, dear. Now, there's all my news, what of yours? I have nothing from you for yesterday – what happens in Edoras?"

Thorin's heart paused in its rhythm, and then his eyes slid away from his mother. "It is all changed. Everything is changed now, because Gimli..."

Her hand tightening upon his was her only indication of surprise. "Darling one, are you well?"

He swallowed. "I am well enough."

"But?" she prompted after a moment or two.

"Gimli loves the Elf in return," he said, each word feeling like it was pulled from his throat with pliers. "He knew."

Frís' intake of breath was sudden and sharp.

Hating every second, Thorin continued. "It is not only Legolas' happiness at stake. My fierce bold star, nârûnuh Gimli... it is also _his_ heart that hangs in the balance, and that I cannot bear. It is too much, too much."

Too much after hearing Kíli's soft, sad words of longing forever thwarted. Too much after hearing his name at last in the mouth of his Hobbit. Too much with the teetering wave of darkness cresting over the lands ready to crash and break all loves and last hopes asunder. Thorin bent his head.

Frís remained silent for another beat, and then she stood and tugged him to his feet behind her. "Right then. Cup of tea. _Now_ ," she said firmly.

"Now you sound like Bilbo," he muttered, and she gave his hand a warm, quick squeeze.

"Good, I am sure he would approve." She dragged him along with the sheer force of her personality, a deer herding a bull. "Tea, then bed."

Thorin stared at her back, his small, golden and indomitable mother, and then to his own surprise a soft and rueful laugh escaped him. "It never lasts long," he said.

"What's that?"

"My small sojourns in your role. Perhaps I am simply not hewn to care for others."

"Now that _is_ nonsense. Was it a century you spent caring for your sister, your nephews? Hmm? It is worse than I had supposed: you need that tea far more than I had ever suspected. Perhaps it will clear the cobwebs from your thinking."

" _Amad._ "

"Thorin," she mimicked his tone, though her attempt at recreating his far, far lower voice was rather less than successful. "Come along. These tidings of war and matters of the heart grow too heavy, and we have to put them down from time to time lest our poor backs break under their weight."

"And tea will make them lighter?"

"Well, a cup is not such a great burden to carry," she smiled up at him, before tugging his hand again and leading him through the Halls towards the great, many-pillared rooms where they ate. "The morning will come soon enough. Let your worries keep until then."

He watched her walking for a second or two, and then he wrapped his arm back over her shoulders. "Aye," he said, and felt rather than saw her approval like the steady warmth of a forge against his heart. "Aye, I will."

* * *

The Man seemed a quiet sort. Haban squinted at him, and then she decided that she would not have enjoyed bargaining with him, back in her trading days. He had the look of one who would go penniless if it served to help those he cared for. Trading with folk like that always made her feel cheated of her fun (Haban was very proud of her negotiation skills, after all) and on occasion filled her with terrible pity.

The place they had been brought to was a cave of sorts with a waterfall that hid the mouth. Within, the cave was filled with stores of victuals and weapons. All around them stood the Rangers in their brown and green, their faces still covered. All but Faramir, who looked out through the cave-mouth at the dawning light that glinted through the rushing water, filling the air with motes of light of all colours of the rainbow: gold, ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, all kindled with an unconsuming fire.

"Another morning," Óin said, and he glanced over at where the two Hobbits lay curled together like nesting kittens, curly heads close. "And another step closer to the Dark Land."

"And a better meal than stewed rabbit beneath their belts," Haban added, and her son grunted. To the side, Fíli and Frerin investigated an open box of short swords.

"I don't know about him, boyo," said Haban softly, and she tweaked her fire-red curled and braided beard in thought. "He's too quiet. He doesn't trust them, and he doesn't buy Frodo's account of the Council at Rivendell. I'd stake a goodly sum that he intends them mischief."

  
[](http://cybermanolo.tumblr.com/post/103485366166/meet-haban-daughter-of-hara-the-fiery-firebeard)  
Haban, by [cybermanolo](http://cybermanolo.tumblr.com/post/103485366166/meet-haban-daughter-of-hara-the-fiery-firebeard)  


"I don't think so," Óin said, and he wrinkled his nose as he looked up at the Captain of Gondor. "He disnae buy the story, no. I think he guesses at far more than he says. But he's brought them here safely when he could have and _should_ have killed them. I heard the others talking: all trespassers in these lands are taken to be servants of the Eye, and by the express order of the Steward they must be killed at once. He hasn't done so."

"Hmm." Haban glanced back over at where the two blond Princelings were bickering, and whistled sharply. "Here, you two! Keep it down!"

"You began it," Frerin said sulkily, glaring at his taller, older nephew.

"And I'm finishing it," Haban said sternly. "The Hobbits are waking."

Water and food was brought, and Sam looked at it with suspicious and bleary eyes. "Now, Sam," said Frodo, "we ate of their food last night. If they're poisoners, then they do a very poor job of it."

Sam only grumbled beneath his breath, but he still fell upon the bread and cheese, salted meat and dried fruits as though they were a King's feast.

"I wish to know more of your tale," Faramir said bluntly, sitting down opposite them. "What concerns Boromir concerns me, as does the mystery of this _Isildur's Bane_. An orc-arrow slew Isildur, so far as old tales tell. But orc-arrows are plenty and the sight of one would not be taken as a sign of Doom by Boromir of Gondor. You say it is hidden. Is it hidden because you choose to hide it?"

"No, not because I choose so," Frodo answered carefully. "It does not belong to me. It does not belong to any mortal, great or small, though if any could claim it, it would be Aragorn son of Arathorn, leader of our Company."

"And why not Boromir, prince of the City that the sons of Elendil founded?" Faramir leaned closer.

"Because Aragorn is descended in direct lineage from Isildur himself," Frodo said, his voice utterly steady.

This caused a murmur of astonishment to pass around the assembled Rangers. "The sword of Elendil!" some cried. "The sword of Elendil returns to Gondor!" But Faramir was unmoved.

"So great a claim must be proved," he said, equally steady.

Frodo's chin raised high. "Boromir was satisfied of that claim. Indeed, if he were here, he would answer all your questions."

"If he were here," Faramir said, and a humourless smile crossed his fair and careworn face. "But he cannot be here, nor anywhere else ever again. Were you his friend, Master Halfling?"

"Yes, I was his friend," Frodo said, and his tired eyes grew sad. "For my part."

"It grows heavier," murmured Óin. "Look at Frodo's eyes, the exhaustion in his face."

Faramir's gaze bored into the Hobbits relentlessly. "Then it would grieve you to know that Boromir is dead?"

"I would grieve indeed," Frodo replied, and then his breath caught and shock turned him pale as milk. "Dead!" he said. "Do you mean that he _is_ dead, and that you knew it? Or are you now trying to snare me with a falsehood?"

"I would not snare even an orc with a falsehood," said Faramir.

"How did he die, and how do you know?" Frodo scooted forward upon the crate that served him as a chair. Beside him, Sam steadied him with a hand.

"Careful, Mr Frodo," he murmured.

"As to the manner of his death, I had hoped that his friend and companion might shed some light on the matter," Faramir said, and he looked upon them with a cool expression.

"He was alive and strong when we parted!" Frodo cried. "He lives still, for all I know! How came you by this news? Have any of our Fellowship arrived in Minas Tirith?"

"They had not when I departed," Faramir said. "But I do not need a messenger to confirm what I know in my heart: Boromir was my brother."

A small noise alerted Haban to their youngest watcher. Frerin was hard-faced and dry-eyed, but his hands were clenched tightly at his sides, betraying his rising emotion. "Nidoy," she murmured to Óin, and he nodded, but Fíli got there first.

"Here now," said Fíli, and he nudged Frerin's side. "Are you well?"

Frerin shot him a glare. "You didn't see it," he said. "I did. I saw it. He didn't deserve it, and he didn't need to die! And now, this Faramir – his _brother..._ "

"Do you remember a mark that Boromir bore with him amongst his gear?" Faramir demanded.

"I... I remember that he bore a horn," Frodo faltered.

"Then you remember well," Faramir said, and he turned aside with a heavy grief shadowing his eyes. "Before I set out upon this mission, I heard the blowing of that horn. And the third night after that, I saw a strange thing at the waters of Anduin: a boat, grey and graceful, and in it lay the broken body of my brother, surrounded by many weapons and wrapped in a curious cloak. I saw many wounds on him, and his sword was clenched in his blue dead hand. I knew his gear, his sword, his beloved face. Only one thing was missing: his horn."

"The boats... the boats the Lady gave us," Sam said haltingly. "Back in Lothlórien."

"Then you have passed through that land!" Faramir said, amazed and saddened both. "What a tale he could tell! And now I shall never hear him speak again."

"I want to go," Frerin said abruptly. "I don't want to be here. I'm going back."

"Frerin..." Óin began, but Fíli, again, was faster.

"What, to see Thorin? He'll only grump at you," said Fíli. "He's been a bear with a sore paw lately."

"I'm grateful to have even that," Frerin spat. " _You_ know."

"Yes, I know. Come on," Fíli said gently. "Brothers, pah – all brothers are twitterpated and a terrible waste of a good worry. Don't you remember?"

Frerin's lips pressed together. "Twit brothers."

"Aye, you remember," Fíli said, and he slung an arm around the smaller blond, tugging him close. "Stick with me, little uncle. We must present a united front. It seems twit brothers multiply when you aren't watching."

Frerin's eyes went wide. "You called me..."

"Well, you are," Fíli said dismissively, and he scruffed at Frerin's head with his hand. "You're absolutely tiny."

"I am not!" Frerin immediately retorted, but there was a warm light beginning to glow in his face. "You – you called me uncle."

" _Little_ uncle."

"Still uncle, though." Frerin's bright, buoyant grin finally broke through the shell of his sadness. "I'm counting it."

"You do that, little uncle." Fíli grinned back, his smile nearly the perfect match, only older.

"What's this about twit brothers?" Óin wondered.

"Don't you be getting any ideas about names to call Glóin when he arrives," Haban warned him, and she tweaked the upcurved plait at the back of his head.

"The horn came back to me by the river, cloven in two," Faramir continued. "It now lies upon the lap of our father, sitting in his high chair, waiting in vain for news. Can you tell me nothing?"

"I do not know what befell him," Frodo said wretchedly. "And now your tale fills me with dread. For if Boromir was killed, so mighty a man was he, then surely all my companions are dead also!"

"Mister Frodo," Sam said hurriedly, "no, don't think such things."

"My cousins, my kin! Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas, those brave souls," moaned Frodo, and he put his head in his hands. "Can you not put aside your suspicion of me and let me go? I am weary and full of grief, and afraid, terribly afraid. I must do this deed, or attempt it, before I too am slain. And the more need of haste, if we two Halflings are all that remains of our Fellowship."

Faramir watched him in silence.

"Please, let him go," Sam pleaded, turning to the Man. "Please!"

"I should now take you back to Minas Tirith to answer there to Denethor," Faramir said slowly. "But if hard days have made me any judge of Men's words, then perhaps I may make a guess at Halflings. My life will be forfeit if I now choose a course that proves ill for my city. So I will not decide in haste."

Sam grimaced in frustration and settled back, stuffing a piece of cheese into his mouth with poor grace.

"Feisty little fellow," Haban murmured.

"I can guess more from your words than you spoke," Faramir said, and he tipped his head and looked at the small, bedraggled pair before him. "You will not confirm nor deny _Isildur's Bane,_ and you hold yourself as though Boromir's memory is painful to you beyond grief at his death. So. You were not friendly with Boromir, or you did not part in friendship. Now, I loved him dearly, and yet I knew him well. _Isildur's Bane –_ I would hazard that _Isildur's Bane_ lay between you and was a cause of contention. A mighty heirloom of sorts, if this Aragorn may lay first claim to it. Do I not hit near the mark?"

"Perceptive," said Haban, shocked. Perhaps trading with such a Man would have been dangerous, rather than disappointing. Perhaps she would have been lucky to escape with her beads still in her hair!

"Too perceptive!" Fíli added.

"The blood of Númenor, perhaps?" Óin wondered.

"You strike near," said Frodo, "but not in the gold."

"Ha!" Frerin crowed, even as Fíli groaned. "A very respectable pun!"

"There's a flash of Hobbitish riddling left in him yet," said Óin, and he sighed in relief. "Good. Good, not so dire then, glad to know."

"Well, calm your fears," Faramir said, and he smiled. "I am not Boromir, and I will not wrangle with you for it. I would not take this thing if it lay by the highway. I do not wish for such things, no – I wish to see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens; not as a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor, and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise."

"Well, he can saddle up his vocabulary and gallop it around the room a few times, can't he?" mumbled Fíli.

Haban was beginning to thank Mahal and all Seven Fathers that she had never come across Faramir or his equal. She would have ended up gifting him with all she owned, and then working for him!

"My errand," said Frodo, and he looked up. "Only my task can bring about the peace you yearn for."

"I do not doubt it," Faramir said, and he leaned back against a box of winter apples. He resembled Boromir closely, now that Haban was looking for it: the same resolute face, the same grey eyes, the same large nose. But where Boromir was unyielding, bold and rash in his actions, his brother seemed slower to act and deeper of thought. "I must yet consider. Give me time to think it through. Tell me of Lothlórien! What befell you in that enchanted land? Did you see the lady who dies not?"

"The Lady of Lórien!" Sam exclaimed. "Galadriel! You should see her, indeed you should, sir. I wish I could make a song about her. But you'd need Strider, Aragorn that is, or old Mr. Bilbo to do the honours, for I haven't the words. Beautiful she is, sir! Lovely! Sometimes like a great tree in flower, sometimes like a white daffadowndilly, small and slender like. Hard as di'monds, soft as moonlight. Warm as sunlight, cold as frost in the stars. Proud and far-off as a snow-mountain, and as merry as any lass I ever saw with daisies in her hair in springtime."

"Then she must be lovely indeed," said Faramir. "Perilously fair."

"I don't know about _perilous_ ," said Sam. "It strikes me that folk takes their peril with them into Lórien, and finds it there because they've brought it. But perhaps you could call her perilous, because she's so strong in herself. You, you could dash yourself to pieces on her, like a ship on a rock; or drown yourself, like a hobbit in a river. Now Boro-" He stopped and went quite red in the face.

"Yes?" Faramir said, an eyebrow rising. " _Now Boromir,_ you would say? What, he took his peril with him?"

Sam set his jaw and folded his arms staunchly, though he waved at the Man with a heel of bread as he spoke. "Yes sir, begging your pardon, and a fine man as your brother was if I may say so. But you've been warm on the scent all along. Now I watched Boromir and listened to him, from Rivendell all down the road – looking after my master, as you'll understand, and not meaning any harm to Boromir – and it's my opinion that in Lórien he first saw clearly what I guessed sooner: what he wanted. From the moment he first saw it he wanted the Enemy's Ring!"

"Shazara!" snapped Óin, but it was too late, too late!

" _No!"_ Frerin gasped, echoed by Haban.

"Sam!" Frodo cried in horror.

"Save me!" Sam gasped, and he slapped his hand over his mouth and his ruddy cheeks turned pale as the moon. "Mister Frodo, I'm sorry! Mister Faramir, sir, don't you go taking advantage o' him just because Sam Gamgee's a fool – you've dealt with us honourably, you have. Now's a chance for you to prove your quality."

"Indeed," said Faramir with a slow and strange smile. "So that is the answer to all the riddles! The One Ring itself. And Boromir tried to take it by force? And you escaped? And ran all the way – to me!"

Sam gulped noisily, and stepped in front of Frodo protectively, full of bluster with his fists raised high. "Now, see here..." he began, his voice trembling.

Faramir stood, and his height put Sam's show to shame immediately. "So, here in the wild I have you: two Halflings, and a host of Men at my call, and the Ring of Rings. A pretty stroke of fortune!" He drew himself up, very tall and stern, his grey eyes glinting.

"Get ready to run for Thorin, little uncle," Fíli murmured.

"I hope you're feeling speedy," Haban added.

Frodo began to back towards the wall, fumbling for the hilt of Sting as Sam tried to shield him with his body, little bare chin outthrust. "Please, let him go!" Sam gasped. "Please, it's such a burden! Can you not let us go?"

"A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality," Faramir whispered, and he stepped forward to eye the chain at Frodo's neck and the seductive glint of gold that peered out between the buttons of his threadbare Shire shirt.

"No!" Frodo shouted, and he backed up right against the wall of the cave, his chest heaving.

"Don't you understand?" Sam howled. "We've got to destroy it! Boromir tried to take the Ring from Frodo - The Ring drove your brother mad!"

There was a silence.

Then Faramir abruptly sat back down and began to laugh quietly. No humour was in that laugh however, and it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. "Alas for Boromir!" he said, and grief crossed his face once more. "Alas for my brave, proud brother! It was too sore a trial. How you have increased my sorrow, you two strange wanderers from a far country, bearing the peril of Men!"

"What?" whispered Óin. "What now?"

"So, am I running?" Frerin wondered.

"Maybe... not?" Haban said dubiously.

"Don't discount the possibility," Fíli said, still eyeing the Man with suspicion.

Faramir's head bent, shading his face. " _Not if I found it on the highway would I take it_ I said. Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing, and even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, still I should take these words as a vow, and be held by them. But I am not such a man. Or I am wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee."

Frodo stared at him, and then as the first shock of fear passed, his body began to tremble. Sam cried out wordlessly and wrapped him in his arms, holding him tightly. "Mister Frodo," he blurted. "Sit, sit down now, Mister Frodo me dear. Come on, your Sam's here."

"Sam, Sam!" Frodo gasped, blindly reaching out with a fumbling hand, and Sam took it in his work-worn brown one and squeezed tightly.

"Well Frodo, now at last we understand one another," Faramir said softly. "You took this thing on yourself, unwilling, for the sake of all others. You have pity and honour from me. Go now to rest. You are safe here another day, and tomorrow I will help you."

"You mean to let us go?" said Frodo with a great hope in his voice. "I must go to Mordor, I must go to Gorgoroth. I must cast the thing into the gulf of Doom. Gandalf said so. I do not think I will ever get there."

Faramir stared at him for a moment in wordless amazement. Then he leapt forward and caught the slight Hobbit as he swayed, and lifting him as gently as he could, carried him back to his blankets and covered him warmly.

"Captain, if you let them go, your life will be forfeit," Mablung hissed, and Faramir stood and met the worried eyes of his Ranger.

"Then it is forfeit," he said gravely.

A small movement to one side sent his gaze back to where Sam stood, alone and uncomfortable. Sam hesitated fo a moment and then he bowed very low. "You took the chance, sir, Captain, my Lord," he said humbly, his hands plucking at his cloak-edge.

Faramir's cheek twitched. "Did I now?"

"Yes sir, and showed your quality: the very highest." Sam said, his stubborn little chin sticking forward.

"Cheeky," murmured Haban. "A _very_ feisty little fellow indeed!"

  
[](http://0-aredhel-0.tumblr.com/post/81735394452/he-called-me-uncle-frerin-based-on-a)  
"...he called me _uncle_ ," by [0-aredhel-0](http://0-aredhel-0.tumblr.com/post/81735394452/he-called-me-uncle-frerin-based-on-a)  


* * *

"Gimli."

The Dwarf seated upon the pallet did not pause in his needlework. "Baknd ghelekh. I was wondering whether you would return, my Lord."

Thorin breathed in slowly through his nose, and then carefully sat down upon the bed beside his star. Gimli's needle flashed in and out of the torn fabric of his rich rusty-brown travelling surcoat, carefully stitching the hem together. "I would not shun you," he said, as evenly as he could. "I would never shun you."

"You have not watched one of your kin make a fool of himself over an Elf, then."

Thorin's lip twitched. "Do not be so sure."

"I do not wish to talk of it," Gimli said. The needle dipped, in and out.

"I will not be dissuaded, my star," Thorin said, and a heaviness settled over his shoulders. "If you know aught of me at all, then you should know that."

Gimli snorted softly. "Aye, there's that, I suppose."

"How long have you known?"

Gimli did not answer. In and out flashed the needle.

Thorin sighed. "I will not leave until I hear your answer, Gimli. I will not censure you for your heart's choice. I will not. I swear it. But I must know."

"As stubborn and intractable as they told me you were," Gimli muttered.

"I will take that as a compliment, kinsman, as it is something we have in common." Thorin watched the needle for a few more moments, before commenting, "I did not know you could sew."

"Dori taught me," Gimli grunted, and he let the work fall to his lap. "I was young, and bored, and making a nuisance of myself one afternoon. He put me to tacking pieces together, to calm my fidgeting fingers and keep my tongue still. I am not very good at it, to tell truth, but better my clumsy attempts than to walk about in rags. I am the only Dwarf many of these Men will ever see, the only Dwarf south of the Misty Mountains! I cannot go about with my clothes torn to shreds. What a fine Ambassador that would make me!"

"You might try brushing your hair, as well," Thorin murmured.

Gimli sniffed. "Ach, that matters not. Who cares for braids and primping and frippery amongst these Riders? They would sooner admire the braid in a horse's mane. But my surcoat – the signs of my line and my axes, those must be well-kept."

"You do us proud," Thorin said, and he turned away to stare at the wall of the large sleeping-room. A banner depicting a running horse, white against green, hung there, the colours greyish beneath a fine coating of dust. "I am proud, nidoyel."

"Yet you will not allow me my silence," Gimli said, looking up.

"Proud and yet unmoved, my star," Thorin said, and he smiled wryly at the faded tapestry.

"Aye, you are exactly as they said you were," Gimli grumbled. Then he pushed back his blazing hair, before groaning. His hands slid down over his face. "Must I?"

"You are a Dwarf alone, are you not – the only Dwarf south of the Misty Mountains," Thorin said, and he reached out without thinking to grip that heavy-muscled shoulder. As always, his hand passed through, and Thorin bit off a curse. "I am here, Gimli. I am here. Tell me, and lighten your load. Dead Dwarves tell no tales."

Gimli was quiet, his face pressing hard into his hands. Then he blew out a huge and explosive breath, and began to search through his tunic. "I will need a pipe for this," he muttered. "Bless that Took for his foresight!" He drew out Pippin's spare pipe and began to fill it.

Thorin waited impatiently as Gimli lit the pipe with his father's old tinderbox. The younger Dwarrow leaned back and sent a stream of smoke to the ceiling, before setting his sewing aside and drawing his legs up. His elbows leaned comfortably upon his knees, and his back pressed against the wall, and all in all, he looked perfectly at ease.

Thorin knew better.

"Relax," he murmured, and Gimli laughed shortly, smoke billowing about him.

"Easy enough to say," he replied, and there was an edge in his deep voice that was not normally there.

Thorin regarded him for a second, this bright and unlooked-for guide against his own darkness and despair. Then he steeled himself and said, "My heart turned to another as well, did you know?"

Gimli's pipe halted halfway to his mouth.

"And just like yours, he was no Dwarf." Thorin's heart performed a painful little flop inside his chest. "Perhaps the Line of Durin has certain innate and well-hidden predilections."

"Ah, nekhush," said Gimli, wide-eyed and shocked. "I did not know."

"Aye," Thorin said, and he lifted his head to fix his eyes back upon the dusty running horse upon the wall. "The one and only love, though I did not know it while I lived. My heart opened so quietly I barely noticed it at all."

"You needn't..." Gimli said, his tone strangled. "My Lord, you don't have to tell..."

"Ah, but a secret for a secret, is that not so?" said Thorin, and he felt the corner of his mouth turn up slightly into a self-mocking smile. "Besides, as you have said before, what good have our secrets ever done us?"

"Some secrets are different," Gimli said quickly. "Melhekhel, this is yours and yours alone. I would not presume to know. Why, it would be as intimate as knowing your Dark-name!"

"Why not?" Thorin's smile broadened. "I know yours."

Gimli froze.

"I heard it in Rivendell," Thorin went on to say. "It suits you. Well, it could hardly do otherwise, hmm?"

"My father," Gimli choked.

"I have watched you for eighty years, inùdoy," Thorin continued. His voice felt very loud in the sudden, stilted silence. "I have loved your fire and your spirit and your courage and your humour. I have borrowed your strength and stability when my own failed. You are so alive, Gimli – so very alive, and I have basked in it. You are a bright flame to warm myself by when I must endure the stately cold wait of death. I have taken much from you, son of Glóin. What is there of myself I would not give you in return?"

"No, ikhuzh," Gimli said, and his free hand tightened into a fist. "You owe me nothing. I have your presence, a miracle unlooked-for and unheard-of! I do not need more than -"

"It was Bilbo," Thorin interrupted. "Bilbo Baggins."

Gimli's words faltered to nothing, and his mouth hung open slightly in astonishment.

"You seem surprised," Thorin said dryly.

Gimli's mouth snapped shut. "Ah," he said wonderingly, and then he ducked his head as confusion crossed his face. "I mean no offense."

"No, it is understandable that you should gape," said Thorin, and he looked down at his own hands. "I did not treat him well."

"No, not..." Gimli pulled himself together with a visible effort, though a trace of his great amazement still shone around his eyes. "But wait, yes – you did banish him, did you not?"

"Aye, I did," Thorin said, and his shoulders drew up protectively against the old, acid surge of guilt that usually followed such thoughts. On cue, it arrived, burying him in old shame.

Oddly, it did not hurt nearly as much as it had.

"I was half-blinded by rage and sickened by the dragon's hoard," he continued, and how odd, how very odd indeed! – these were things that had happened, they were faults and burdens that still weighed upon him, still _ached_ with a crushing finality _,_ but strangely Thorin could face them now. He could speak of them without self-hatred crippling his tongue. "Mad with greed and vengeance, I threw him away. My brave, foolhardy little thief stole the one thing I could not forgive - and then he gave it to those who would coerce our people's treasures from us under threat of steel. Yes, I banished him. Then I held him over the southern battlements and shook him like a rabbit. Then I fought my foes, saved my home, and I died."

Gimli was silent again, and the whites showed around the deep warm brown of his eyes.

Thorin threw him a sidelong look. "Remember _that_ , my brave bold lad, the next time you feel that there is too much between yourself and Legolas to forgive. Remember what I did to _my_ one sanâzyung."

"I never..." Gimli choked, biting his words off, and then he stuck his pipe into the corner of his mouth and took a long, long draw.

"And then," Thorin swallowed hard, "remember that he forgave me as I lay dying."

"Who else knew?" Gimli said, his voice very soft.

"Balin, definitely." A snort escaped him. "That old Dwarf knew me too well, even when I wished to lie to myself. Possibly Dwalin. The damned cursed Wizard, no doubt. By the end of our Quest, half the Company had guessed. Your father, now – he knew. But I did not."

Gimli chewed upon the borrowed pipe for a second, and then he looked up. "And Mister Baggins?"

"He has never spoken," Thorin said, and his hands twined together even as he watched, the knuckles turning white. "He will never speak now. I was blind and proud and did not see, and so my chance of love slipped from my hands and I was lost - lost in a maelstrom of despair, madness and darkness. My story is not a happy one, my son. It is a tale of desperation and fading hopes, of revenge and missed chances. Yours, Gimli... for you, it is not too late."

"Oh my King." Gimli's eyes closed for a moment. "My beloved King, I would that you had not told me this. I do not deserve to know. This was yours, your heart alone. Master Baggins should hear this, not me."

"And how do you propose I tell Master Baggins, hmm?" Thorin huffed a bitter laugh. "I am, as I am sure you are aware, _eighty years long dead_."

Gimli winced.

"But yes, I would tell him, if I knew how." Thorin's shoulders sagged, and he could hear the heavy, slow thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. "You have that chance. Do you know how precious that is?"

"And if my love should rob Legolas of his life?" Gimli's jaw rippled, and determination smoothed his brow. "No. Here is where our stories differ, my Lord."

"You have but Aragorn's word," Thorin argued, but Gimli immediately shook his head, his fiery braids swinging.

"What cause has Aragorn to lie?" he demanded. "His own heart is at war on this, despairing for his lady! Why should I be able to choose easily where he struggles?"

Thorin had no answer to that.

"Besides," Gimli said, and his head fell forward. "Legolas is an Elf, and he is the son of Thranduil of Mirkwood. There may not be unforgiveable deeds between us, but there is enough in those two facts to keep the Wood and the Mountain at each others' throats for as long as I live."

"And life is so very certain in these days? As long as you live, Gimli, may be until the morning's light," Thorin said with a sigh. "You live in the midst of war."

"Edoras is not so rowdy as all that," said Gimli, snorting. "I am sure I will survive yet another night behind its walls."

" _Gimli_ ," Thorin growled.

Gimli waved his pipe. "Aye, aye, I take your meaning. Calm yourself, my Lord."

"I will be calm when you open your eyes!" Thorin's fingers clenched in the fabric of his trousers. "I did not tell you such things in order for you to repeat my mistakes."

"You hate him," Gimli retorted. "You hate him and his people and his father. Durin's beard, braids and boots! For all I know you hate the very sound of his name! You bade me tell him that you did not trust him, and that you were watching his every move with deepest suspicion. You have ever scorned him. Why do you urge me on now?"

"I do not hate him!" Thorin tried to temper the surge of aggravation that welled up underneath his ribs. "I – I was wrong. I do not hate Legolas, Elf though he is."

"You would never forgive him his parentage," Gimli said firmly, and he stuck his pipe back between his teeth. "I know enough of you, without hearing your secrets, to know that at least!"

"I do _not_ hate him!" Thorin repeated, and he tipped back his head in frustration as a growl clawed at his throat. Here was the fruit of all his suspicion, and oh, it was sour!

"You nearly brought the North to bloodshed for hatred of his father," Gimli said, low and dark, staring forward through billows of smoke with stubborn resolve. "I hope you'll understand why I dinnae believe you."

"You-!" Thorin swallowed the curse that leapt to his tongue. "Yes, I admit, I despise Thranduil and will until the mountain crumbles to dust. But Legolas..."

"Son of Thranduil," Gimli interjected, a bitter twist to his lips. "Prince of the Mirkwood realm."

 _That_ was the final pebble that began the avalanche. "Gimli, I will _not_ see you tread my lonely path!" Thorin roared. He was abruptly standing over the seated Dwarrow, though he had no clear memory of pushing away from the pallet or of getting to his feet. " _I will pass into the everlasting nothingness beyond the world_ before I see it done! He loves you, you damned stubborn fool, and you love him!"

"I KNOW!" Gimli bellowed, and his head snapped up and his eyes flashed angrily. "D'you think I haven't worked it out? Aragorn's news was the last piece of the puzzle – I have known the other half of me since the Mahal-cursed _river!_ I know he yearns – is there a single shift in his eyes, the slightest change in him, that _I_ cannot see? Every movement he makes is a fascination to me; his smallest sigh is a treasure! _Of course I know!"_

Thorin stared. There were tears standing in Gimli's eyes, though they did not fall. His cheeks were flushed above his uncombed beard, and his teeth were white and bared amongst the strands of bright red hair. The snarl upon his face was as familiar as breath itself. He looked – he looked like Thorin himself, for the first time in his life.

"I know," Gimli continued, his voice quieter although his breath was still coming fast. "I guessed, early on in our hunt across the moors of Rohan. The Elf sighed and ate and sang and slept like one in love. I could not believe it, but there was no other it could be. Aragorn, maybe, but he is more like a brother to him – and then when he was lost over the cliff, Legolas turned to me! To me, for comfort! He did not weep for a love lost, but for the fleeting fragility of life. He sought after my words, my touch! Not Aragorn then, not a King of Men with Elvish blood in his veins, but a Dwarf of Erebor, an impossibility. It could not be so, yet the night of the feast seemed to confirm it. But an Elf, and _me!"_ He spread open his great, axe-worn hands helplessly, and then roughly rubbed at his eyes . "Ach, it was not to be believed."

"You will not speak ill of yourself," Thorin gritted.

"Âkminrûk zu , zabadel – but I am not what Elves dream of," Gimli said sardonically.

"You have a beard even your father might envy, if ever you combed it," Thorin said, folding his arms and sitting back down heavily. His anger still tore at him, but he mastered it with some effort. "Do not pretend you do not know your own worth or how many eyes have followed you over the years; you, the noble-born son of a famous beauty."

"Dwarven eyes," Gimli corrected. "I know I have caught a few, I do not deny it, but Elves prefer other qualities. How was I to believe that he could see me as a Dwarf would?"

Thorin rolled his own eyes. "You cannot be serious."

Gimli's lips tightened. "It has been but a matter of months since he deemed me capable of finer feelings, let alone saw me as an individual in my own right. Forgive me a little insecurity and scepticism."

Thorin bit his tongue.

"I had to know," Gimli said, and his head fell to his chest. All his fury seemed to drain from him: like Glóin, Gimli was quick to anger but also quick to forgive. "I would have asked Legolas himself, but he has avoided me ever since the feast. I asked Aragorn, and the last clue fell into place. So. Now I know. I wish I did not."

"Gimli, you should still talk to Legolas," Thorin said, and his own rage was not so easy to dismiss. "Will you deny him his own choice and his own voice?"

"My love will cost Legolas his life," Gimli said, and he let out a deep shuddering breath. His voice dropped into a soft, sad rumble as he continued. "He does not need to be tied to me, nor to mortality. He is not bound by the one love of a Dwarf: he can find another, and they will be happy under his adored trees for all the Ages hereafter. I would not drag him into the dark after me."

"You do not have the right to choose for him," Thorin managed.

Gimli tapped out his pipe, which had gone out as he spoke. "Perhaps not," he said, and then he looked up. "But I can remove the choice altogether. Legolas will live."

"Gimli," Thorin tried again, but the other Dwarf turned away and picked up his mending once more. "Gimli, listen to me: we are Dwarves, we love but once. You cannot live your life with half your heart forever missing...!"

"Why not? Many others do," Gimli grunted, and the needle began to swim through the wool, tying a neat, firm knot. "It's not uncommon. I shall simply dedicate myself to the life of the axe."

"That is not where your heart calls you," said Thorin, and he shook his head and dragged his hands through his hair. "My son, _please!"_

Gimli bit off the thread, and carefully replaced the needle in a soft roll of felt that he tucked into a pocket of his bedroll. Then he pushed himself from his pallet, and squared his thick shoulders. "When I asked for you to make peace with Legolas, I never thought it might end this way," he said to the seemingly-empty room. "My lord Thorin, you have my every loyalty but in this I will not be commanded, not even by you. If Mahal himself came and told me to bind Legolas to me, I would refuse! I will be his, aye, til the end of my days. But he cannot be mine. I will join you one day in the stately cold wait of death, my body returning to the stone. That is my fate, and the fate of all the Khazâd. I will not – I _cannot -_ cast Legolas' life away so easily, not when all the Ages of the Sun are his birthright. Not for my own selfish happiness."

"And what of his?" It would happen again – and it would happen to his much-loved fierce and blazing star. Thorin would helplessly watch as Gimli trod Thorin's own long, lonely path, losing his fire and his laughter with every weary step. "Your One is before you – do you know what a gift you have been given? What you are throwing away? Gimli, inùdoy, open your eyes! Speak to him!"

Gimli's head lifted slightly. "Some secrets are different," he said simply. Then he picked up his axe, shouldered it, and began to walk from the room.

"I would take back my words," Thorin shouted after his retreating back. "Your Name, Sansûkhâl: it suits you not at all! One who sees clearly should not be so damned cursed _blind!"_

* * *

The four Dwarrows stared upwards.

Nori sniffed. "Sloppy technique. He shoulda gone under cover o' darkness."

"He's quieter than you ever were," retorted Lóni. That made Nori fold his arms and glower, but he did not bother refuting it.

"A Hobbit is quick and quiet, as I recall," said Thráin, scratching his head. "Do you think he has realised yet?"

"Nope," said the fourth member of their watch. She had not spoken much, a Dwarrowdam of few words. Still, her presence was making Lóni rather awestruck, and irritating Thráin no end. "He hasn't twigged at all."

"It is already late to send for aid when you are already besieged," said Thráin to himself, pulling at his moustache as he thought. "Yet both Erebor and Gondor must do as circumstances dictate... but who will come?"

"Thorin'll have a word in their ear, you'll see," Nori said, and he tipped his head. Above them, the Hobbit scrambled onto the head-high stack of wood, balancing upon his large feet. "Not bad. For a beginner."

"He hasn't yet been spotted, at least," said Lóni.

"I reckon they'll notice a bleedin' big fire, don't you?"

"Now, why have the oil above the flames and the wood like that?" said the Dwarrowdam disapprovingly. "Accident waiting to happen. A pipe-and-tap system would be far safer."

"Oh, happy enough to help _them_ , I see," Thráin grumbled. The Dwarrowdam grunted derisively.

"Because Mahal knows I can do a lot for 'em, dead as I am, eh?"

Thráin scowled. "Then why not help me with my greaves? I'm not asking for much of your time..."

"The refusal is good for you, O mighty King of Erebor," she said and grinned, her teeth very white in her brown-skinned face.

"Damned haughty craftswoman," Thráin muttered under his breath, and refocused upon the Hobbit with a face like thunder.

"That expression could sour milk," Lóni said, impressed.

"While it was still inside the cow," Nori added. "Wonder if it'd work on some o' my ah, business associates?"

"Oh no," Thráin said, and he lifted one of his great thick fingers and waggled it before Nori's nose. "I am done with your tomfoolery. Being fleeced by you once was quite sufficient, thank you. Leave me and mine out of your transactions from now on."

"Shame," Nori said, buffing a ring upon his hand against his jerkin (it was a new ring – nobody quite knew where he had gained it). "Could have given you some very nice little commissions, some favourable odds on your next wager, you know..."

"What, just for looking intimidating?" Thráin pursed his lips in consideration, and behind him, the Dwarrowdam muffled a guffaw. He scowled again. "And that's enough from you, too!"

"Oh, don't you even try to order me about, Thráin son o' Thrór," she said cheerfully. "You're not _my_ King, after all."

"Is he actually lighting the beacon while he is still standing on it?" Lóni asked nobody in particular, sounding extremely bewildered.

Nori took one look, and groaned. "I take it all back – total hopeless novice."

"Gandalf wouldn't let him get hurt," Lóni said, looking back at the high white walls of the upper level. The top of a white-haired head and the intricately carved G-rune of a staff could only just be made out. Easier to spot was the silver-and-black livery of a Man beside the staff. "Who's that?"

"A tower guard, Beregond son of Baranor," said Thráin. "Gróin made mention of him in his last report. Pippin has made friends with the fellow. He seems a decent enough sort, if a bit humourless. He thinks Pippin is some sort of old campaigner: a soldier-halfling of sorts."

There was a brief pause, and then all four Dwarves burst out laughing.

"Oh, oh that hurts," Lóni gasped.

"Pippin!" sniggered Nori.

"Now, now, mustn't be unkind," the Dwarrowdam said, though her face was again split with a massive grin. "The little fellow is indeed a seasoned campaigner now! Look how far he has come!"

"The only seasoning he does involves pepper and salt," snorted Nori.

"Well, he has a chance to prove himself now that he is out from under the wing of his older cousin," Thráin said, and he shook his head. "That is, if he doesn't barbecue himself first."

"Look!" Lóni cried, and he pointed to the ridge of the White Mountains. The snow-capped peaks should have glowed in the sunshine, but instead they huddled beneath the sullen sky as though crowding together for warmth. "There, upon the highest rise!"

There was a flicker, and then an answering bonfire grew – a bright dancing spark of red-gold against the scudding, ominous clouds.

"Hope is kindled," they heard Gandalf murmur.

Behind Thráin, the great artisan Narvi tossed her head, her braids swinging. "I could have done it better," she groused.

"Damned haughty craftswoman," Thráin was heard to mutter again, before he scowled ferociously enough to frighten all of Nori's business associates for the next several centuries.

  


_Narvi, by[christmashippo](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/81578940569/ive-finally-done-it-here-is-some-fanart-for-the) _

* * *

"Your Majesty," said Balin, bowing low. Thrór waved a hand absently, half-acknowledging the greeting. All his attention was taken by the dispatch clutched in the hand of his young distant cousin. His eyes were fixed upon the blocky runes, his heavy grey brows drawn into a frown.

"What is it?" said Náli to Balin in an undertone.

"I'm not sure," Balin whispered back. "But it doesn't look good."

"Adad." The Dwarf holding the missive looked up, and Balin could see it was the Stonehelm. The Crown Prince looked exhausted, but there was a new fire in his eyes that had not been there previously. It was as though the lad who had grown up upon tales of heroes was finally finding his own strength. The long siege was changing all of Erebor in unexpected ways. "This report."

"Eh?" Dáin glanced over. The body-servant who was helping the old King into his armour paused with her hands upon a buckle, and Dáin patted her shoulder. "Give it a rest, Berdit, I'm not so infirm that I can't reach the rest. What's that then, lad?"

"It's from Froäc, the raven overlooking the valley," the Stonehelm said, glaring back at the message. "The Dale-Men are moving."

"Moving!" Dáin shooed the body-servant aside and clanked over to his son, his iron foot scraping against the worn carpets in the King's antechambers. "Moving where? When did this arrive?"

"Bomfrís sent it over at the second hour past dawn," the Stonehelm said, and he looked up to his father, noticing the heavy gambeson for the first time. "Oh, _Da,_ you cannot be serious. You needn't..."

"I am and will, Thorin. Hand it over," Dáin said, snapping his fingers. The servant, Berdit, wrung her hands behind the King as though silently apologising for every undone strap and buckle.

"Your back," the Stonehelm complained, but he handed over the message anyway. "You must promise me, Da. Be careful. We need you to lead us, not to die for us."

"What sort of King hides behind fortress walls, hmm?" Dáin snorted and shook out the message, roughly carding one gnarled and arthritic hand through his son's long, black hair. "You and your mother, ach! I've said it before and I'll say it again, I won't be sitting idly by. I've been fighting battles since I was a wee nipper, and my old plate still fits me, so in Durin's name why not?"

"Your _back,"_ the Stonehelm insisted, standing and nodding to Berdit. "I'll fix his armour. Go get yourself something from the kitchens, if your ration allows it."

The servant blinked and then bowed, before leaving.

"What's going on?" whispered Náli. "I can't read that chicken-scratch. It all turns inside-out when I try."

Balin knew of this difficulty of the old training-master's, and he murmured, "wait and hold. None can read it now anyway, not with Dáin peering over it as close as a jeweller with a gem."

"Something about the ford of the River Running," said Thrór. "The writing wasn't exactly clear, I'm not surprised that you couldn't make it out."

"Westron?" asked Balin.

Thrór shook his head. "Nay, cirth. Very sloppy and rushed, too."

"Bofur," exhaled Balin. He turned back to Dáin and the Stonehelm. "I know what this is. The Bizarûnh have completed their muster, and are on the march to the Mountain."

"Praised be Mahal below," Thrór said, and he sagged in relief. His hand reached out as though to stroke the green-flecked stone walls of the chamber he had stood in. "Erebor will be saved."

"That's a _lot_ o' Orcs," muttered Náli, but Balin hushed him.

The Stonehelm pulled carefully upon a buckle, belting the backplate in place upon his father and straightening the quilted gambeson beneath. Dáin huffed under the new strain, but the old Dwarf did not move. Dáin had always been tough as teak, even before his age had caught up with him.

A shuddering _boom_ rattled the room for a moment, but they both ignored it, too inured to the sensation of boulders smashing against the mountain to react. "You would do better with chainmail," the Prince muttered, and then moved to the other side to adjust the fit accordingly. "Do you suppose that Brand has at last overruled his Council?"

"Must've done," Dáin said, and he grunted audibly as the Stonehelm lifted and began to strap the heavy cuirass in place. Great sword-scars were still visible upon the steel that was folded into intricate geometric patterns at belly and breast. The old-fashioned, fine armour was well-kept, but marked heavily. Dents too deep to hammer smooth showed clearly upon breastplate and neck, evidence of old battles that Dáin had refused to erase.

"Adad?" The Stonehelm paused, an expression of concern crossing his face.

"Get on wi' it, boy," Dáin grunted. "They are crossing the River Running. So they approach from the south- east?"

"The Orcs cover our flank more thinly upon the Eastern slopes. Bofur is showing caution," said the Stonehelm, pulling hard upon a buckle. "Breathe in now."

Dáin held his breath, and the Stonehelm thumped down heavily with both fists upon his father's shoulders, settling both plates into place. "Oof," Dáin managed, and then he chuckled. "Got your mother's strength, you do."

The Stonehelm smiled a small, crooked smile, and then he picked up one of the pauldrons and began to strap it over his father's massive shoulder. "Don't deflect me, Da."

"Deflect? Me? Perish the thought." Dáin put on as innocent a face as he could muster, and then grinned broadly, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening into crevasses. "Come on now, give me t'other. And don't think you can get around me by fussing, neither. Your eyes are sunk in dark shadows, undayuh. Are you getting any sleep at all or are you at watch upon the walls all night?"

The Stonehelm picked up the other pauldron and cleared his throat. To Balin's amusement, he began to blush, a faint dusting of pink upon each of his cheeks high above his neat ginger beard. "Oho," he said to himself, and clasped his hands over his stomach. "This lover will not wait until the metal has cooled, but will brave the sparks that fly, eh? Someone has decided to be a little hasty, I'll wager!"

"Hasty?" Thrór's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to the Crown Prince with a deeply scandalised look on his face. "You mean...?"

" _Well_ ," Náli said, grinning from ear to ear.

His son's reaction had not gone unnoticed by Dáin. The old King's lip was twitching. "Thorin," he said sternly, but the amused glint in his old blue eyes belied his tone. "Have you something to tell me?"

"Ah," the Stonehelm faltered, and then he ducked his head and began to strap the pauldron to his father's other shoulder. "Um..."

Dáin let the boy twist for a moment or two longer, and then he snorted loudly. "Oh, as if half the court hasn't already guessed. You're not subtle, my lad, and your lady even less so. Just try and ensure that you get _some_ sleep, eh? Wouldn't do to be nodding off upon the ramparts. Bad look, that."

The Stonehelm's ears were now a violent red. "Yes, Da," he mumbled. "We... it was... I never meant..."

"Here now," Dáin said in a more gentle tone. "We are at war and you have found your One. I wouldn't dream of stoppin' you from anything you two wish to share together, and nor would any right-thinking Dwarrow. We could all be dead tomorrow, after all. The world teeters on the edge of a blade, and suddenly your very heart is standing before you. They'd need mud between their ears not to understand that. I would have you find happiness while you can, nidoy."

Balin smiled to himself. Náli spotted the smile, and raised an eyebrow. "Thought you didn't care for such things," he muttered, a trifle grumpily. "You never wanted more than a kiss and a cuddle, before."

"And nor do I, and nor will I," Balin said with cool equanimity. "But I can accept that others may wish otherwise, may I not?"

Náli grumbled beneath his breath, too low to hear, and folded his arms. Balin stifled a sigh, and turned back to watch the father and son, his heart sinking just a little. He and Náli had grown close during their ill-fated five years in Khazad-dûm. However, Náli had been generally unable to accept that, although Balin was very fond of touch, he did not want a physical relationship. It had eventually led to the dissolution of what had been a rather promising little romance, in Balin's opinion, and even now, after decades and death and gathering darkness, years later, the matter could still lead to tension between them.

"All I ask is that you are safe with each other, all right?" Dáin said fondly, and he wrapped his massive old hands around his son's face and knocked their foreheads together. Then he added, as though an afterthought, "Oh, an' make sure you're wed before any bairn begins a-pushin' her tunic outwards. It don't matter so much to me - nor to any raised in the Iron Hills, for that matter - but we're sort of visible nowadays after all. We don't want any of our grand old Lords an' Ladies dropping dead of sheer mortification, do we?"

The Stonehelm looked as though _he_ might drop dead of sheer mortification. "Adad!" he groaned, and scrunched his eyes shut as though offering a fervent prayer.

"Stones and stars, boy, you think you're the first to discover it?" Dáin grinned, enjoying the moment hugely. "You should ask Bombur how long it was after he was married that the lovely Barís Crystaltongue were born. I hear Alrís had her own personal horizon, the day she laid her hands in his! The way he tells it, wee Barís was testing her brand-new lungs only seconds after Alrís spoke her vows. He talks an awful lot when he's in his cups, you know."

The Stonehelm desperately picked up a heavy gauntlet and waved it around. "Your arm?" he pleaded.

Balin was trying to stifle his chuckles, and he could see the answering light of amusement in Thrór's eyes. Náli was outright guffawing.

It was good to see Thrór a little less sombre. Sometimes he was entirely too bound by the pain of his past, Balin reflected. The dead King's mouth was twitching behind his vast and handsome beard, and he was tugging at one ear absently in the most relaxed pose Balin could remember since he was young. Perhaps Nar would be more familiar with this side of Thrór.

Dáin had mercy upon his poor scarlet son and, chuckling, held up his thick arm so that the Prince could strap the gauntlet around his wrist and below his elbow. Outside, the horns could be heard faintly, calling for a cascade of boiling water to be poured down over the battlements upon the newest Orcish ram. "Ach, I only want joy for the pair of you, believe that. So much before you, a light even in this darkness. How I wish I were young again," he said, his gaze following his son's dark head with a warm smile as the young Prince worked at the buckles. "Actually, no, scratch that, my youth was a pig's breakfast. D'you think your ladylove will allow an old Dwarrow to see his son wed before he returns to the stone?"

"Adad," Thorin growled, and then he scrunched up his face. "I don't know. Bomfrís is... well, she doesn't like the idea of a crown."

"Who does?" said Dáin bluntly. "Good lass, that shows sense! Crowns are heavy an' ugly and they leave a dent behind your ears. No sane Dwarf would want one if they knew how much bloody trouble they are."

"Hear, hear," Thrór muttered.

"I know she is learning to love me," the Stonehelm said, and for an unguarded moment his expression came alive with a wild and exultant joy as he strapped the iron-studded kilt-like faulds around Dáin's waist. "But she insists she is nothing more than an archer. I cannot force her into a life she does not want, but I don't exactly know how I can separate Thorin the Dwarf from Thorin of Erebor and the Line of Durin... ach. It feels foolish to speak of these things when a sea of death surrounds us."

"No better time," Dáin said, his plate clanking as he shrugged. "The Crown's a pain in the arse, no question, but wearing one gets you listened to a lot faster than it does if you're but an archer."

The Stonehelm picked up the singular greave and fiddled with it for a moment, before meeting his father's eyes. "You didn't want it, did you?"

Dáin only quirked one white eyebrow in answer. The Stonehelm puffed out a breath of realisation. "Did you never think to hand it on?"

"Ha. No, I was never for Erebor," Dáin said, and his smile was wry. "I know, I know. Spent more than half m' life fighting for her now. But my home was always the hard harsh peaks of the Iron Hills. Oh I miss 'em still. I miss the way the wind made moaning notes sound, low and hollow, as it whistled through the valleys. I miss the colours, the way the rust-red of the ore made the mountains glow, the stark beauty of 'em. I miss the way the River Redwater sparkled and danced when the snowmelt made it run bank-full every spring. I miss the deep secret ways I trod when I was but a tiny little brat, no bigger than Dwalin's youngest."

"But you stayed here," the Stonehelm said, and he sat upon the edge of the desk. The raven's missive lay there, forgotten, as the younger Dwarf listened to the old King speak as he had never done before. "Why?"

"I've told you before, pay attention," Dáin said, and he pushed back the thick braid that lay against his son's neck. Another faint horn-call signalled a volley of arrows from the highest sconces: the Elves did their part as well. "There was no-one else left. You know your history, you've had the finest tutors. Who was next in the line o' succession, lad?"

Thorin blinked, and then he said slowly, "me."

"Aye, you. And you were but seventy-five, grown but untested, an unknown. My soldiers weren't going to follow a green boy, and no old Dwarf of Erebor long-lost even knew who you were. Who was next?"

Balin gulped.

"Balin son of Fundin," said the Stonehelm, and he let out a soft 'ah' of realisation and leaned back. "The rest of the succession... they were _all_ of the Company..."

"And they were deep in mourning," Dáin completed with a terrible, heavy sense of finality. "The very deepest. Their King was gone, and so were his heirs, and victory was more bitter than defeat in the end. Around us were piles of the dead: Men and Elves and Dwarves and Orcs – not to mention broken alliances and promises made and bargains struck that could never be honoured by their bargainers. I've seen it before. Battles need generals and glorious leaders, but afterwards? A bloodied battlefield needs a steady hand with a broom. Someone has to pick up the reins when the world has fallen apart."

The Stonehelm blinked, and then he asked, very softly, "who was it for you?"

  
  
Old Dain, by [aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/123060876343/super-quickie-sketch-of-a-peaceful-old-dain)  


Dáin smiled again, and the smile was very wistful and soft. "Thirty-two, I was. D'you know that?" he said, more quietly than he had ever spoken before. "Only thirty-two, just a wee little lad. The doors of Durin closed on my knee, and that was that – shattered, lost for good. There wasn't medicine enough, and the sawbones was no gentle Gimrís, let me tell you. And then lords that are yet living, they stride through the blood and that sweet-sickly smell of burning bodies to bow down to that half-delirious little lad of thirty-two, and demand orders. They tell me that my father and my mother are dead. Well done, Dáin-lad, you're a hero – lost a foot, but a hero. Oh, and you're an orphan, incidentally. And we can't call you 'lad' anymore, though you're still half a child – you're the Lord now that your whole family is butchered and burned. Sorry about your foot, by the way, but we're sure you'll get used to it in no time. The tally? Nobody knows. The wounded are beyond counting, and winter is coming on. Food? There is none. So, what do we do now, m'Lord?"

Silence fell for an awful, suffocating moment, and Balin did not dare glance over at Thrór again. The Stonehelm looked at his father, mouth slack with shock. "Da...!" he said, his voice filled with utter horror.

A muffled noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob came from Thrór's direction.

"And who else should there be, eh?" Dáin smoothed back the braid again, and then tugged upon the bead at the end. "Who walked out of the carnage like a figure from the old songs? Who took it upon themself to pick up those reins when the victory had cost us so very dear? Striding out of the blood and the smoke, his eyes red and dry and terrible, barking orders. He was like something out of a tale. He'd lost his grandfather and his brother, and his own father was crushed by grief. Fifty-three years old, not yet grown either. A battle full of _boys_ , it was. He had to shoulder an even bigger burden than I. The world had fallen apart, and he chose to stand between us and the abyss."

"Thorin Oakenshield," said the Stonehelm, hushed and reverent. Balin's eyes slid shut.

"I remember that day," he muttered.

"So do I," Náli said softly.

"I wish I could forget," said Thrór bitterly.

"So that is what Dáin saw," Balin said, and the image was still carved into his mind in shades of blood: the young Dwarf silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky, a branch in his hand, his helm missing. "As I did. Someone to follow. Someone to call King."

"And that's why I stayed, my boy," Dáin said, and he tugged at the Stonehelm's braid again. " _That_ is why your use-name is what it is. Just a funny coincidence that you ended up lookin' a wee bit like him. That'll be the Durin nose. And the temper, of course. Got to watch out for your temper, lad."

The Stonehelm blinked his eyes – blue eyes, those pale and icy eyes that had passed down through generations – up at his father. He let out a slow shuddering breath and his head tipped forward, hiding them behind a curtain of thick black hair.

Dáin's gaze was hazy, fixed upon a point decades ago, and his voice distant and meditative. "When I was young I saw what victory costs, and I saw what it meant to pick up the pieces. He did that for a grieving, wounded boy, long ago. And so, when he fell, I chose to do the same. After all, I was the only one who could, and I owed him that much."

"You still want to go home, though, don't you?" the Stonehelm said.

"Aye," Dáin said. "When they put me in stone, I'll no doubt be moving the whole mountain inch-by-inch to the east until we get to my Hills, you mark my words!"

"I wish you wouldn't..." the Stonehelm muttered, and then he caught up his father in a hug that clanked and rattled with the sound of armour clashing together.

"Ah now," Dáin said, and he cupped his son's head in his hand as though the blocky, thick-necked Dwarrow were still a little child. "Shhh. You're a damned sight more ready than I was, inùdoy. I know you don't like it when I remind you that I'm to die, but remember – someone must pick up the reins when the world falls apart. That is what a crown means. Your lass is right to fear it."

"She's not afraid of work," the Stonehelm muttered against his father's shoulder. Another booming thud rattled the room.

"Good, that'll help then," said Dáin. "You know how your mother hates the crown herself, but she's found her own ways to serve it nevertheless. Bomfrís can find hers, I have no doubt. She's a resourceful girl, after all."

"She grew up so poor," Thorin said, and seemed to shake away his mood. He knelt to buckle the greave around his father's one remaining leg, "I never knew there were Dwarrows so poor..."

"Aye, that's good for you to know too," Dáin said, and he sucked in a breath as the greave pulled against old, sore muscles and arthritic joints for a moment. "Give that a minute, unday... yes, you grew up in the fat times, you've never known want. The Iron Hills never saw dragons the way that Erebor and the Grey Mountains did. Iron is a lot less pretty than gold, though it's a damned sight more useful if you ask me, and we never lacked for it. So, we stayed quiet and safe while every other kingdom fell to ruins. Many of us were lost at Khazad-dûm answering the call of our King and kin, but at least we had somewhere to return afterwards to nurse our losses. They didn't. We sheltered the refugees after the War of Orcs and Dwarves, but they would not stay and they moved on soon enough. Thráin an' Thorin wanted their own home, after all – Erebor or Khazad-dûm – not mine. Bomfrís is a Broadbeam, ain't she?"

"Yes," the Stonehelm said, and he lifted a shoulder briefly in a half-shrug.

"Damn good people, Broadbeams. Good soups. I like the one with the dumplings." Dáin stretched out his good leg experimentally, and then he nodded. "All right, go ahead and truss my leg up. Never forget, Thorin – we had a home to go back to. For many here, they had nowhere - not until old Oakenshield took back the Lonely Mountain. Some? Even _longer_. Talk to Glóin about his mother sometime, she was a Firebeard. Longbeards is one thing: the Broadbeams and Firebeards have lived without their ancestral halls for millennia. We're a people that lose their homes, Thorin. You can never forget that, m'lad."

The Stonehelm nodded once, his face serious. Then he gestured to the ground. "Do you need to walk it in?"

"Aye, most probably," Dáin sighed. Then he grumbled, "Don't remember the stupid thing being quite so heavy."

To his credit, the Prince said nothing. He only stood in one swift motion and offered his shoulder for his father to grip as he clanked around, settling the armour into place.

Another shattering boom rocked the chamber, and the Stonehelm winced. "That was a bad one. I think we might have cracked a wall there..."

"Aye, well, let's hope it was a bloody high one," Dáin said, and he pulled himself upright and held out his hand. "Time to put on my working hat."

The Stonehelm passed over Dáin's helmet – high-domed, with a crown beaten into the forehead-guard and curling boar-tusks jutting out either side of the old Dwarf's jaw. "I will see what I can do to clear the south-eastern slopes," he promised his father.

"You should be _asleep_ , you love-drunk rascal," Dáin said, shaking his head. "But aye, I'd be grateful if you saw to it that Dwalin and Orla and Dori know of the Bizarûnh before you turn in. To _sleep_ , mind. Understood? I'll tell Dís myself."

The Stonehelm's blush returned, but he was able to nod without any further loss of dignity or composure.

Dáin clapped the boar-helm upon his head, and then he picked up his massive two-handed red battle-axe, the famous blade Barazanthual. "Mizùl," he said briskly, patted the Stonehelm's shoulder once, and then began to clank towards the door which led out to the vast elevated walkways of the throne room.

"Mizùl," the Stonehelm echoed. His hand felt to his side, fisting in his fur-lined coat, as he watched his stiff old father limp towards the battle. The wild white head was tall and proud as always.

"Wait!" came a call from behind them. "Wait –your majesty! Your majesty! Wait, there's been..."

It was the body-servant again, Berdit. She was puffing, terribly out of breath. "Your majesty!" she managed. Her braids were mussed from a hasty dash through the halls.

"Slow down, you're white as chalk," the Stonehelm said, even as Dáin came limping back. "What is it?"

"That boom," Náli said with slow dread, and he met Balin's eyes. "That weren't no wall cracking under a boulder..."

"The tunnel," Berdit gasped.

The Stonehelm's face turned hard as diamond, and his eyes bored into the poor servant. "Yes? You mean Bofur's tunnel?"

"They found it," said Berdit in a tone of pure dread. Dáin swore loudly, echoed by Náli. Balin rather felt the urge to let out a few choice words himself.

"And?" the Stonehelm demanded.

"And..." Berdit glanced between the two suddenly-terrible royals, two pairs of ice-blue eyes locked onto her. "They... collapsed it."

"No," breathed Thrór, and he looked up. "Get Thorin. Get my grandson here. Now!"

"No," the Stonehelm echoed, his face turning ashen. "No. The workers... the miners -"

"Aye," Berdit managed, and wiped her forehead. "But it's - it's even worse than that. Bofur had begun to lead some of the Dale-Men through to the Mountain."

"Zuznel," groaned Thrór, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, merciful Mahal."

"Adad..." the Stonehelm slowly raised his eyes to meet his father's horror-filled look, "we sent Bofur's little son down there. To wait for his father."

Berdit appeared as though she was about to be violently sick.

"Bring Thorin NOW!" Thrór roared, and Náli shook himself from his shock and abruptly winked out of the world of the living, the stars of Gimlîn-zâram coming to swallow his form in an instant.

"Time to get the broom out," Dáin said through gritted teeth, his eyes afire with determination. "Deploy three troops of sappers. Get me Lady Genild, get me Dwalin Fundinul, and send for the Lady Dís and Lord Laerophen. I don't care who you wake! Just get them down there _now._ Sappers first!"

"Da, _lights,"_ the Stonehelm said urgently, and Dáin gave a sharp nod.

"Get me every one you can – and be quick about it! I want daylight down there – blind those damned Orcs, you hear me? We may need the Miners' Guild – send a bird to Ravenhill – let Orla know – move it! Now!"

Balin clenched his fists over his hammering heart and took a deep breath.

"We have weathered worse than this," he said to himself. "We endure."

"They are breaking through," Thrór growled through gritted teeth, and he reached out again to brush the emerald-streaked walls with the tips of his fingers. "No. _No._ They cannot have her. Not again. _Not ever again_. We will not lose our home again!"

**TBC.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Black Speech**  
>  Dâgalûr – Demon
> 
> (The Black Speech is taken, with many thanks, from this website: [The Land of Shadow](http://www.thelandofshadow.com/mordorgate/darkdownloads/blackspeech/speech3.htm).)
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Nârûnuh – My Champion  
> Sanâzyung – Pure/perfect love  
> Nekhush– sorrow  
> Birashagimi – I'm sorry (literally, "I regret")  
> Inùdoy – son  
> Nidoy - boy  
> Gimli – star  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight.  
> Sansûkhâl – the one who sees with perfect/pure sight  
> 'Amad – mother  
> 'Adad – father  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> Zabad - lord  
> Undayuh – My greatest boy  
> Zabadel – Lord of Lords  
> Melhekhel – King of Kings  
> Mizùl – good luck  
> Ma katakluti, melhekhel – I cannot hear clearly, king of all kings  
> Baknd ghelekh – good morning  
> Zuznel- bad of bad
> 
> Balin Dwalinul – the second of the three sons of Orla Longaxe, General of Erebor, and Dwalin, Field-Marshal of Erebor. Young Balin is only 21 years of age at the time of the War of the Ring. Balin has Aspergers, and though Dwarven society is accommodating of the needs of neuroatypical people, the siege is creating situations which can be uncomfortable or even painful for someone with Aspergers, such as continual loud noises, disruptions to normal routine, and an atmosphere of constant high tension.
> 
> Endor – The Quenya name for Middle-Earth (the Sindarin is _Ennor)._
> 
> Dol Amroth – ruled over by Prince Imrahil, a vassal-state of Gondor.
> 
> Lossarnach – ruled over by Forlong the Fat, a vassal-state of Gondor.
> 
> Dwarves only love once, and if they cannot have the one they desire, they "will have no other." 
> 
> After the Battle of Five Armies, the succession of the Line of Durin ran as follows:
> 
> 1\. Dáin Ironfoot  
> 2\. Thorin Stonehelm  
> 3\. Balin son of Fundin  
> 4\. Dwalin son of Fundin  
> 5\. Óin son of Gróin  
> 6\. Glóin son of Gróin  
> 7\. Gimli son of Glóin
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the chapters, "Minas Tirith," and "The Window on the West," and from the films.
> 
> ALSO: **Fic inspired by Sansûkh**
> 
> [Sansûkh (Traducción) - Spanish translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1307479), by muse-at-dawn
> 
> [What To Do When You're Bored (And Dead)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1299100), by Redring91
> 
> [When Asked](http://squintkes.tumblr.com/post/80368652793/ficlet-when-asked), by squintkes
> 
> [The Cracked Headcanons of Adorability!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/tagged/and-the-cracked-headcanons-of-adorability!) by darthstitch
> 
> [Still Around the Corner There May Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344487), by darthstitch
> 
> [Holy Holday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387231), by badskippy  
>  _As ever, thank you from the bottomest bottom of my heart for every hit, every kudos and every review. Thank you so much for reading._
> 
>  
> 
> _xxx Dets_


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hi all, apologies for the delay. I am now the proud parent of a beautiful little girl, and she is the most amazing and astonishing little person. She is also hugely challenging, and so I am afraid writing takes a backseat. Thanks to the vast majority of readers for their kindness, patience and understanding! To those self-interested few who are laying on the pressure to hurry up and update constantly, here is my answer: no. *blows loud raspberry and flings nappies at you*_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Art and artiness**  
>  _Christmashippo_ :  
> \- [Do you want to ~~build a snowman~~ help with my greaves? (poor Narvi!)](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/97134903693/sooo-yeah-this-is-what-happens-when-i-dont-get)  
>  \- [Narvi & Siblings](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/96963026953/im-working-on-a-new-picture-this-time-with-narvi)  
> \- [Narvi - expressions!](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/96786610813/im-working-on-drawing-expressions-and-still)  
> \- [Thrain doesn't give up easily!](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/86993395848/ive-seriously-had-this-in-my-folder-for-almost-a)  
> \- [Chapter 15 - the hair-cutting scene](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/84118539583/finished-whooop-collapses-in-a-heap-oh-mahal)  
> \- [Narvi](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/83421090131/hello-my-beauties-i-has-a-narvi-for-you-the-in)  
> \- [Narvi & Mahal](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/83422268476/more-narvi-for-all-your-narvi-needs-this-time)
> 
>  _cybersuzy_  
>  \- [Thorin & Gimli](http://cybersuzy.tumblr.com/post/83732209197/hi-i-can-finally-post-my-sansukh-determamfidds)
> 
>  _Flukeoffate_  
>  \- [Gimizh, Wee Thorin and Tiny Frerin](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/83645705933/three-mischief-makers-by-flukeoffate-deleted-the)  
> \- [Balin Dwalinul](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/83692011808/balin-dwalinson-by-flukeoffate-balin-dwalinson)
> 
>  _sakurita94_  
>  \- [Gimli and Legolas, chapter 24: comforting Legolas after Aragorn's fall](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/post/84952454445/based-on-chapter-24-of-determamfidds-awesome-fic)
> 
>  _0-aredhel-0_  
>  \- [Frerin, Chapter 30](http://0-aredhel-0.tumblr.com/post/81735394452/he-called-me-uncle-frerin-based-on-a)
> 
>  _beargirl1393_  
>  \- [Divinedolls of ALL THE DWARRODAMS!](http://beargirl1393.tumblr.com/post/97405579389/i-made-dolls-using-doll-divine-of-all-of-the)
> 
> ALSO ALSO -  
> the amazing [voxmyriad](http://voxmyriad.tumblr.com/post/88621809826/to-stand-like-a-flag-voxmyriad-multifandom-archive) wrote a thing! It is an AWESOME thing! I liked it so much, it is now officially part of the [ Sansûkh Appendices](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58630) :)  
> [To Stand Like a Flag](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1776712)

It was extremely dark.

"Hello?" Gimizh called, and then he rubbed at his face. He could feel dirt smeared across his nose and grating in his beard (and it _was_ a beard and not simply ambitious sideburns, no matter what Wee Thorin said!). He couldn't see his hand before his eyes. His voice bounced strangely: there was no tunnel before him anymore. "Hello? Jeri? Agur? Is anyone there?"

No answer.

Gimizh struggled to his feet, and then another shower of fine, clinging dirt came whispering from above. He froze.

His dad had been a humble miner once upon a time, before the Quest and Erebor and prosperity had hurtled him into the public eye. His dad's dad had been a miner. And his dad before him, too. Gimizh might have been descended from the aristocratic Line of Durin through his mother, but also bubbling in his veins swam generation upon generation of Broadbeam miners.

Now, alone in the dark, every single one of his instincts was awake and screaming at him.

"The whole thing's come down," he whispered to himself, and then he reached out with one hand into the stifling dark. "Air won't last. Need light, need light, need light…"

There must be a broken lamp, somewhere ahead. Gimizh could remember it hanging from a joist over the guards' heads, before he was knocked out. Somehow he knew that it was important to move as carefully and as quietly as he possibly could, in case his miraculous little pocket of space beneath the soil caved in.

His reaching hands found carven stone, and he blew out a shaky breath, and began to fumble about for the lamps. His pulse was very, very loud in his ears, but he wouldn't blubber like a baby. He was a great big Dwarf now. He could be brave – as brave as Uncle Gimli.

He wouldn't think about his Dad, trapped somewhere in all this smothering dirt.

"Ouch!" he yelped as his fingers found broken glass.

 _Hissssssss,_ went the shifting soil above him.

Gimizh's heart stopped entirely, a prayer trapped behind trembling lips. The sound of creaking wood and whispering dirt was terribly, terribly loud in the silence.

After a few breathless moments, he steeled his shaking hands and reached out again. The beam that had fallen had been toppled against the tunnel wall rather than caving in entirely, it seemed, and was now holding the wall's shoring timbers in place instead of the ceiling. That was the only reason that his little stretch of tunnel had not collapsed. Gimizh sent a fervent thanks to the Maker for that unexpected stroke of luck, and then his questing finger found the smooth cold bite of glass once more. The lamps had shattered when the beams fell, and warm lamp-fat spilled over his fingers. He wrinkled his nose. Gross.

Still, the fact that it was warm meant that it hadn't been all that long since the cave-in. Perhaps Jeri and Agur were still ahead, just underneath the greyish-brown soil of Erebor. Perhaps they were all right! They were warriors, like Aunt Orla and Uncle Gimli: of _course_ they'd be all right.

Of _course_ they would.

He managed to scoop up some of the tallow in the brass bowl of the lamp, and pulled at his clothes until he found the ties to his jacket. His mother would scold him, he thought ruefully as he bit through the sturdy wool and rolled it in the tallow before the stuff hardened, letting it dangle over the edge of the bowl. The broken glass around the sides bit at his fingers some more, and he stifled his whimpers. Brave Dwarves on adventures didn't cry.

The blood on his hands made the dirt into mud as he groped about by the fallen beam for the flint. There would be no tinder, and he knew that his improvised wick wouldn't last very long, but hopefully he would have light enough to make some torches.

His shin barked on the fallen beam, and he sucked in another whimper. He was a big Dwarf, he was a big Dwarf, he was a big Dwarf, he was a…

There was another hiss of shifting soil, and Gimizh was seized by a sudden sense of panic. He flung himself into the dirt around the beam, scrabbling around madly. "Where is it, where is it," he managed in a hitching whisper, his fingers sticky with blood and mud. "Where is it…"

His hand closed around the sharp, cool shape of the flints, two stones attached to each other by a length of chain.

He breathed out.

It was at that moment that Gimizh realised that what he had been hearing was _not_ the hiss of soil.

* * *

When Thorin came barrelling through the starlight like a comet, he was greeted by pandemonium. "Thorin! Thank the Maker!" came Balin's voice through the din. "This way, this way!"

"Balin, what has…" he began, only to be interrupted.

"They shall not get in," Thrór said in a voice like dust and gravel. "They will _not._ We must fix this!"

"But what…"

"The tunnel that Bofur dug," rasped Thrór, and he met Thorin's eyes with dread written in the line of his lips and the stiffness of his shoulders, "they found it."

His blood curdled and his arm shot out, his hand grasping his grandfather's shoulder far, far too tightly. "They have not entered Erebor," he snarled. "They shall not enter Erebor!"

"They collapsed it," said Balin quietly. "Bofur was leading the Bizarûnh through, and then…"

To fight a foe in the dark, with the earth swallowing you at all quarters, no air, no light – Thorin shuddered. "Bofur has not arrived in the Halls," he was able to say. "Bifur would have said."

"That is good news," Balin said, and slumped.

Thorin raised his eyes to meet his old friend's, and frowned at what he found there. "That is not all."

"No," Balin said, and he took a breath. "Bofur's son is down there."

Thorin could only stare at Balin for a long, long moment. "Gimizh," he said eventually.

Gimli would be _shattered._

"Thorin," said Thrór, a note of desperation in his voice. "Thorin, they may yet enter. Erebor is not whole!"

"Have they secured the entrance?" Thorin said, putting his horror aside with a massive act of will. He had no time to deal with it now.

He turned to the horde clustered at the end of the cave they stood in. Now that he looked more closely between the bodies of the workers, he was able to see that they were thronging around the entrance to a tunnel. Dirt and rocks were spilling from its mouth as though from a child's toppled bucket.

The noise was horrendous. Dwarves were shouting and screaming at each other, several were clutching terrible wounds, and one Dwarf was lax and lolling, insensible thanks to a horribly-bashed head. The miners at the tunnel-door were working furiously, and others were scurrying back and forth to take the wounded to the healers as they were brought forth from under the rubble. A great-voiced Dwarf (an Engineer, to judge by her braids) was shouting orders as the miners worked. And behind her, the King and Prince had arrived to assess the progress.

Judging from the looks on their faces, it was not going well.

"The beams have been smashed, bringing it down on our heads _and_ theirs," said Dáin grimly. "This will be slow going."

"Orcs do not care for their own lives, only for robbing us of ours," the Stonehelm said.

"How far in have they reached?"

"Nigh thirty feet, though the new tunnel is unsafe and could come down again at any moment." The Stonehelm shook his dark-maned head. "We have little wood left with which to shore and prop the walls and roofs. They will make do with the splinters of what remains, but…"

"We've been running low for weeks, you don't need to tell me, lad," Dáin grunted. "The signal fires are being lit with my favourite writing-desk as we speak, and the forges are being fed with priceless heirlooms. Wood is more precious than gold, in these days."

They watched for a silent moment as a screaming Dwarf was brought forth by the miners and spirited away by the healers. Her leg had been shattered to smithereens, the foot totally missing.

"Well, I don't envy her what's to come," Dáin said eventually. "It stings like a bastard, from what I can remember."

At that moment, a bright pale shape came hurtling into the room. "Is it true?" demanded Laerophen, and his golden hair was disordered. No trace of his usual high-minded superiority was in his face, and he was gripping his knives in white-knuckled fists. "The little one, with the red hair – is it true?"

"What can you do if it were?" Dáin said evenly, and he turned back to his son. "We cannot draw more from the walls, we have barely enough to defend them as it is."

"I know," the Stonehelm said, his gaze fixed on the dark and sinister tunnel. "We must do with what we can spare."

"Miners, engineers, healers," Dáin muttered, and shook his head. "We've grown so complacent. Eighty years of peace! Used to be that I ran the tightest damned army in Middle-Earth. Now I must ask my people to take up shovels to defend themselves."

"I can help," Laerophen said, and he drew himself up tall. "I am an Elf, and I can see better than any Dwarf."

"Much good may it do you in pitch-darkness," the Stonehelm snapped. "You had best see to your archers."

"My second has her orders," Laerophen said, obstinately standing his ground. "Let me help."

"They're wasting time!" growled Thrór.

Thorin threw his hands in the air. "Let the damned weed-eater help, just stop arguing and get on with it!" he roared.

"Fine then, stay and be silent!" the Stonehelm burst out. Then he ran his hands through his long, black hair in frustration.

"Hold fast, lad," Balin said to him, and he looked up at Thorin with worry written all over him. "And you: keep your temper! This is tense enough as it is."

Thorin scowled at him, but did not spend his energy in useless argument.

"How did you hear?" Dáin asked the Elf.

"The messenger who told General Orla," said Laerophen. "I overheard them."

"Did anyone else hear?" demanded Dáin, and Laerophen shook his head.

  
  
Laerophen, by [Mandel21](http://mandel21.tumblr.com/post/109902445846/tried-to-draw-laerophen-aka-mr-think-of-the)  


"This cannot get out," said the Stonehelm in a harsh undertone, grabbing his father's arm. "The rest of the Mountain cannot know!"

"No," Dáin said between gritted teeth, and his old sad eyes were hard as steel as he glared at the sea of diggers swarming around the mouth of the tunnel. "No they cannot. Those on the walls would lose heart immediately, and the city would panic."

"I will stay," said the Stonehelm firmly. "Go, you are our King. Go to the walls. Give them heart at the sight of you."

"Ah, there's a lad," Dáin grunted. "None would take heart at the sight of an old and creaky Dwarrow, but you do persist. We need fast messengers. Are there ravens here?"

"You know they dislike being underground," the Stonehelm said, and the shouts of the overseers rang out against the sound of shovels hitting metal. "They have found another!"

"Out of the way, out of the way!" Thorin growled, pushing past Balin, his grandfather, and the living alike, to stare at the shape thus revealed.

"That's Jeri child of Beri," said someone in a hushed voice. "Their face is like ashes!"

"Let them breathe!" snapped another. "Move back, you rats!"

"Jeri, Jeri – can you hear me?"

"Who is this Dwarf?" Thorin demanded.

"I don't know, laddie," Balin said in a subdued voice. "But that's the livery of Dwalin's own handpicked City Guard."

Thorin grimaced. "Do they live?"

"And that, I also cannot tell you," Balin sighed. "I expect we'll find out."

"Where is the messenger?" Dáin roared, and the gaggle of Dwarrows fussing over the prone Jeri began to thin as some took the stricken Dwarf away, and others returned to the digging. "To me!"

A skinny, gangling shape broke away from the diggers, their hands gripping their sleeves. "I'm assigned," said the Dwarf. "Your Majesty."

"That's Dwalin's boy," said Balin in shock.

"Thorin Dwalinul," Dáin said, and he let out a sigh, leaning heavily upon his metal peg. "Ach, Mahal curse it."

"Another child," Laerophen said, and he drew himself up with an expression of outrage and disapproval on his fine-boned face. "You still persist in this… this…"

"We have _no choice!"_ Dáin shouted, and he closed his eyes and turned away. "Durin's beard! Of all people, I know what it is to fight too young! If you wish to be of use, Elf, then pray to your beloved starry Lady for a world in which children do not know war. Perhaps she will hear you. Mahal only knows I prayed for the same when I was younger even than this boy, and none of the precious Valar ever heard _me!_ "

There was a ringing silence, in which Dáin wiped down his old, wrinkled face with a shaking hand.

Thorin knew that guilt. He knew the taste of it, the weight of it: to be the one left breathing in misery when others lie cold and still. "Dáin," he began, but he could think of nothing to say.

Laerophen was silent, and then he bowed his head.

The Stonehelm looked up at his father, and something hard and wise slotted into place in his eyes. "Another battle full of children, and no good choices left," he said beneath his breath. "As though we have not had our fill of such horrors. Mahal have mercy on us, I wish never to hear of, nor see another damned war for the rest of my life."

"I can help," Wee Thorin piped up. His dark face was alight with determination. "I _want_ to help."

Dáin seemed to flinch imperceptibly at those words. For a moment, his great age could be seen upon his face. The facade of an indestructible warrior-king had cracked, and behind it could be seen a tired old Dwarrow.

"Adad," said the Stonehelm softly.

"Cousin," urged Thorin. "Cousin, you must grieve later. Come, you must take up the heavy mantle once more! Dáin, you pigheaded old idiot – there is no _time!_ "

Dáin sighed again, and then the grizzled white head lifted. The facade slipped back into place and he appeared strong and proud once more, an ancient Dwarf of iron and teak. He turned back to look at the tall, skinny son of Dwalin and Orla. "Stay close to the Prince," he ordered Wee Thorin, his eyes grave and sad. "Any danger, I don't want you near it. I do not wish to hear that another young one has been lost, understood?"

Wee Thorin nodded, too full of worry for his best friend to protest being called "young one."

A new uproar began at the doorway, and Thrór shouted, "Thorin!"

Darting as best he could through the crowds, Thorin made his way to the entrance. The darkness in the cramped, makeshift tunnel beyond was absolute, and he peered into it. "The sounds of blades!" Thrór barked. "Orcs have survived in there!"

"Go!" snapped the Stonehelm to his father. Dáin nodded once, and then he turned and left the hall. There was no sign of his age hinted at in his angry, powerful stride. The sound of boulders crashing against the Mountain rang over the clashing of voices and shovels as he departed.

The Stonehelm watched his father leave for a moment, and then he turned back to glare at the ruins of the tunnel and grabbed Wee Thorin's hand. "Now, you stand behind me," he said in a low voice to the tall, gangling lad. "Should there be fighting, you must run for my father, understand? You are not to try any heroics."

"Yessir," Wee Thorin said, and his huge dark eyes were fixed on the tunnel mouth.

With a shout, a Dwarf spilled from the entrance into the hall, and her brow was smeared with blood. Blood also dripped from a tear in her tunic at her side, and she was pale and filthy. "They can crawl through it like worms!" she gasped, and fell in a heap.

Immediately on her heels came a slavering snarl, and two great, dirt-encrusted Orcs sprang forth. One was beheaded by the Stonehelm, and the other ended up with a pickaxe through the eye.

Laerophen ran to the injured Dwarf and quickly examined the wounds. "Broken ribs," he muttered. "Help me lift her, but keep her level!"

"Hold fast, but be wary!" the Prince shouted. "There may be more!"

"We need soldiers!" gabbled a miner as the injured Dwarf was led away.

"We do not," retorted the Stonehelm. "We are Dwarves, and this is our home. Would a soldier fight with more feeling?"

"A soldier'd probably fight with something sharper," grumbled the engineer, tugging at her pickaxe which had become embedded in the Orc's bony skull. "Give us a hand, would you?"

"Take this," Laerophen said impatiently, throwing one of his daggers to her feet. She picked it up and tested the edge, nodding in approval.

"Keep going!" the Stonehelm ordered, and he flicked the black blood from his sword. "Every second that slips away is one less breath of air for any who are trapped!"

"I heard there was Men down there too," said one miner. "Men can't hold their breaths as long as we…"

"We shall do what we can," said the Stonehelm. "But I say again: be wary!"

"Easy for you to say, you're not down there in the dark!" the panicking miner said in a high voice, clutching his hands and wringing them. "You in your shiny armour with your nice clean face, shoutin' orders! You're not grubbing in the filth and the muck and the dark! You're not looking at all your work in ruins and turned to nightmares, surrounded by screams, not knowin' if something horrible is going to come leapin' out at you and bite your head off, or eat you alive; if that noise you heard was a friend or somethin' unnatural sliming about…"

"Hregan, pull yourself together!" the engineer growled.

The Stonehelm's jaw rippled for a moment, and then he stepped forward. "Move."

"You what?" the miner said, interrupted in his hysterical ranting. "What?"

"You're in the doorway," the Stonehelm said, patient as the stone. "I need to get past you."

"You cannot be serious!" Laerophen shouted over the din. "You are their Prince!"

"And it is my duty to put myself between them and danger," the Stonehelm snapped back, "is it not, _Prince_ Laerophen?"

The Elf gaped for a second, and then his lips pressed together and he bent his head back to the injured miner he was tending to.

"Wait, wait, I gotta stick by you!" gabbled Wee Thorin, and he clutched at the Prince's elbow. "Are we going in there?"

"You are not," the Stonehelm said. " _I_ am."

"But the King said…"

"You will obey my orders!"

Wee Thorin's head snapped up, and his shoulders bunched. "Gimizh is my _best friend!_ I'm going too!"

The Stonehelm's fists clenched. "I am your Prince!"

"So? I got orders from the _King_!" Wee Thorin folded his arms and glowered. "I. Am. Going."

Thorin Stonehelm glowered back.

Thorin scowled thunderously at them both. "Get on with it!"

Balin glanced between all three Thorins with an air of resignation, and then he turned to Thorin with his hands spread. "I don't want to have to point out the obvious here, my friend, but…"

"I swear to Mahal, this family," Thorin muttered, and put his head in his hands.

* * *

Gimizh cried out, one long ringing scream, and lashed forward with the broken lamp. Oil spilled everywhere. Some of it landed on his hand, soaking through his mitten and mixing with his blood. The rest landed in the eyes of the hissing Orc that had landed from the roof of the tunnel to snarl in his face. It reared back, howling. Gimizh screamed again, and smacked the thing in the face once more. Broken glass scattered through the air, a tinkling in the crushing blackness. The Orc gurgled in pain and its long arms reached for the terrified Dwarfling.

Gimizh gripped his lamp as hard as he could, and swung with all his might.

This time, the Orc's snarl trailed away into a dreadful choking noise, and Gimizh backed away on his bottom faster than he had ever done anything in his life. His heart was hammering like a million miners in his chest, and he felt light-headed and sick. His lamp clattered against the fallen beam, and he fumbled with the flint-chain in his bleeding hand to light his makeshift wick, praying all the while (more fervently than he had ever done before) that there was enough tallow left, that he hadn't just spilled it all.

The Orc made a horrible bubbling sound.

Gimizh sobbed, tears and snot running down his face unchecked, as he struck the flintstones against each other again and again and again, to no avail.

"Please," he whispered through numb lips. " _Please."_

Finally, he found the angle. A spark began to flare between the stones as he struck, and he cried in relief. Holding the stones over the wick, the spark caught and the remnants of the lamp sputtered into life, though the spilled oil sloshed about in the broken glass bowl and nearly doused the tiny flame. He blew on it unevenly, his breath hitching and catching in his heaving chest. The flame quivered for a moment, and then grew larger, steady and warm.

It was with shaking hands that Gimizh grabbed a fallen splinter of log and wrapped his filthy jacket around it. It had been new only a month ago, bought from Dori and decorated with boar's heads picked out in green and brown. He'd rather liked it.

"Oh, Mum's going to be so angry," he whimpered to himself, and then he whacked the stunned and bleeding Orc again with his unlit torch for good measure.

The jacket caught fire easily, and some of the freezing terror in his chest relaxed as he stood on wobbly legs. Gimizh picked up his lamp in one trembling hand and lifted his torch higher in the other in order to stare at his opponent.

The Orc lay across the tunnel, face covered in lamp oil and blood, twitching slightly. Glass was embedded in its head.

"I did it," Gimizh whispered. He'd killed an Orc, all by himself. Yet he didn't feel very adventurous. He felt rather ill, in fact.

Lifting his chin, he swallowed and steeled himself as best he could. He could be brave. He muffled the little voice in his chest that desperately cried to go home. He could be brave. Adventures might not be everything he had dreamed, but his father was still out there somewhere and Gimizh was going to find him or burst. Though it made his flesh crawl, he clambered over the Orc and began to trot further into the dark. He could be brave. He had killed an Orc in the darkness, all by himself! He was a mighty warrior! He was on a Quest, just like Uncle Gimli!

Wiping his filthy and bloodied hand across his forehead, Gimizh went forth into the unknown in search of his father.

* * *

The rattle of swords in the clinging darkness came seemingly from all sides. Shouts rang out, confusing the echoes, and shadows reeled and span in sickening motion as the lamps swung upon the arms of the fighters.

The Stonehelm roared and pressed forward into the crush of Orcs, his great spiked Morningstar leaving devastation in its wake. "Du Bekâr!" he shouted, and all around him the shout rose from a hundred throats, seemingly from the very earth itself: "Du Bekâr!"

Thorin charged forward through the ranks of Orcs to peer into the dark beyond. The tunnel had fallen through in several places, but the Orcs had squirmed through the softened earth like horrible moles to take their present stand. The dancing shadows made it hard to see, dark-vision be damned, but – a flicker here and there – and finally he could see the hole in the ceiling above, small and ragged and spitting Orcs. They came so thick and fast, not a single glimmer of light could be seen through the press of bodies. "There!" he shouted, and whirled back to see the Prince and Dwalin's son closing in on his position.

Wee Thorin appeared to be near-nerveless with fear as he shrank behind the Stonehelm. The deadly whistle of the great Morningstar Amradamnârab, or Death-Dealer, sang above the awful din of battle as it whirled above heads and crashed into limbs and smashed through armour and helmet and flesh. The Prince was wild with movement, his hair spinning out behind him in a graceful, deadly arc.

"Cousin!" Thorin tried. The Stonehelm blinked back sweat-crusted dirt from his eyelashes, and sent the Morningstar into the chest of an oncoming orc with a savage cry. His eyes blazed with anger. "Thorin Stonehelm, hearken to me!"

"Too far into the battle-lust, that one," Thrór panted. "Try another."

"But he is of Durin's line, our family hears me best," Thorin protested, and then he caught sight of the young son of Dwalin, hiding behind the Prince with a too-big axe in his hands.

"Thorin Dwalinul," he said blankly, and cursed beneath his breath. Then he rushed forward. "Unday! Here is the place they entered! Look up, look up!"

"No," Thrór said, shocked. Balin let out a wordless cry of outrage.

"Child, listen to me!" Thorin bellowed, pushing back through the chaos.

Balin reached him just as he made it to the lad. "Thorin, what are you doing?" he said, anger making his voice tight. "That is my nephew!"

"And you think I will have better luck reaching Dáin's son, do you?" Thorin barked back, tense and harsh. "The Stonehelm hears nothing but the voice of battle. He will not hear my words. The boy will."

"The boy, as you put it, is only thirty-seven years old!" Balin cried, and he clamped one hand about Thorin's forearm, as inflexible as steel cuffs. "Thorin, no!"

"Would you have the Orcs overrun the tunnel?" Thorin snapped back. "I like it even less than you do, but there is no other way! It must be blocked!

"Got to be blocked," Wee Thorin muttered, and he hoisted his heavy axe higher in his hands. The double-bladed head was nearly as high as he was.

Thorin gave Balin a hard look of understanding and determination. "I am sorry, old friend," he said through clenched teeth. "I cannot wait longer."

Balin's hands flexed as though they yearned for the handle of his sword, and then he grated, "do it."

Thorin span back to the boy. "Thorin," he said to him, and how odd it was, to call another by his daylight-name! "Thorin, do you see the roof where the Orcs cluster thickly?"

The boy's wide eyes, whites showing in fear, flickered up. Then he sucked in a little breath. "There!" he howled, and he ran forward, pointing up frantically. His little boots clattered as he stomped them, hollering at the top of his lungs. His voice soared above the lower bellows of adult Dwarves and the snarls of the Orcs. "There, up there, do you see? There's the entrance to their tunnel! They're using the collapsed roof as a stair down into ours! There's where they're gettin' in!"

The shout was taken up by others, and Thorin slumped back. "Thank the Maker," he said, as the defenders swarmed towards the Orc's entry-point.

But the childish shouts had drawn the enemy's attention. Balin let out a horrified cry as a great grey Orc began to prowl towards the child, a vicious-looking gutting-knife in her hands and a cruel smile on her face. "Hello, little grub," she purred, and a long, thick tongue wetted her lips in a gross slobbering display. "What a tender little morsel you are, eh? Not all tough an' gristly like these bigger 'uns, I'll wager..."

"Get you gone, you foul thing!" Thorin growled, and Wee Thorin gulped and raised his axe in shaking hands.

"Bet I taste horrible," he said bravely. "Bet I make you _choke."_

"Well, we won't know," sneered the Orc, picking up speed, "until we try!"

It lunged, and Wee Thorin shrieked and swung out with the axe. Too heavy, the head clattered to the ground and he managed to lift it again by staggering backwards and wrenching with all his strength. The Orc laughed, having dodged the wild swing easily. "Oooh, nasty little morsel," she cooed. "Gonna split me up the middle, are you? Gonna spill out my innards?"

"Yes," said the Dwarfling defiantly. "So go away before I chop you up into little bits!"

The Orc chortled again, low and sneering. Then she abruptly stopped, her mouth hanging open around her last laugh.

Wee Thorin blinked.

A bright shape, near-luminous in the dark, appeared over the Orc's shoulder and there was the slick sound of steel drawn out of flesh. The Orc made a surprised, soggy sound, and then keeled over onto her face.

"I thought the Prince told you to stay behind him," said Laerophen, his eyes flashing with anger.

"I thought Elves only fought with bows and arrows," retorted Wee Thorin, his axe still clutched to his chest with shaking hands. "Guess we were both wrong."

Laerophen smiled, quick and feral. "There is little light and less room for shooting in this maddening darkness," he said. "Stay close, child."

"Don't call me that," Wee Thorin said automatically, but he scurried into the Elf's wake nevertheless.

Thorin reached out and steadied Balin as he swayed in relief.

"They collapsed the tunnel beyond this point!" came the cry from the Dwarves at the beginning of the Orc's tunnel. "They were tunnelling downwards from the surface above our own – where their diggings met ours, they collapsed the roof to provide their stair down! Bofur and the Dale-Men must be beyond!"

"Can you hear them?" roared the Prince. Ragged shouts in the negative came wafting back amongst the rattle and clash of weapons.

Thorin glanced at the tumbling wall of earth that had provided the Orcs their way into the tunnel that had been such a source of hope. "Do you suppose..." he wondered aloud.

Thrór frowned in confusion, and then his eyes opened wide. "Try," he said eagerly.

"What, I'm not following," Balin said, still loose and boneless due to the unexpected rescue of his nephew. "Try what, Thorin?"

"I will walk through the earth to the trapped miners and the Bizarûnh," he said, still eyeing the wall of shattered beams, scattered rocks and earth that stood between them. "I will find them. Perhaps Bofur will hear me."

"And Gimizh?" said Balin, looking up. His face was white, and his beard was uncharacteristically mussed. "What of him?"

Thorin hesitated, a short sharp pain twisting his insides. "If I can find him," he acknowledged.

Neither of them needed to state the odds of a lone Dwarfling surviving a cave-in.

As there was nothing more to say, Thorin strode forward through the clashing combatants and laid his hand above the spilled wall of rubble. It seemed solid enough, but then, the world of Gimlîn-zâram generally felt sturdy and solid to the touch at first. Walls and floors and earth and water appeared to obey their accustomed laws for the dead watchers, until they were put to the test. The illusion was comforting, though easily broken.

Thorin swallowed and pushed his hand forward, fingers outstretched. It disappeared into the dirt up to the elbow.

 _No. I will not die like this,_ came the echo of his own voice from the distant past, _cowering, clawing for breath._

He took a breath, filling his lungs near to bursting, and then plunged headfirst into the suffocating nothingness beneath the earth.

* * *

Gimizh raised his torch higher and blinked.

No, that couldn't be right.

He looked behind him at the clods of earth he had clambered over, and then ahead at the long stretch of empty tunnel in perfect order. He thought that perhaps Erebor was behind him, rather than in front. He must have been walking the wrong way.

Gimizh said a word that his mother would have pinched his ear for saying, and rubbed at his bleeding hand again. His lamp had long since gone out, but he had kept it in order to use the tallow to feed his torch. There was dirt in his eyelashes, and he could feel it scratching at the soft delicate tissues of his eyes. They were watering slightly, but he didn't dare rub at them. They were sore enough already.

He needed water. Durin's beard, but he was thirsty.

  
  
Gimizh in the tunnel, by [NarukaUzumaki13](http://narukauzumaki13.deviantart.com/art/Sansukh-Chapter-31-Gimizh-in-the-Tunnle-512460698?ga_submit_new=10%253A1423413226&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1&ga_recent=1)

So the Orcs had collapsed the tunnel in the middle? Stupid Orcs. Now Gimizh couldn't get back home. He flopped himself onto the ground and jammed the butt of his torch into the ground, pulling at his shirt. The torch flickered feebly, and he said the bad word again. It would soon go out.

He managed to get his shirt off, smeared in tallow, and wrapped around the torch just in time. Thankfully, the fire had not died, and neither did he smother it in his clumsy haste.

Bare to the waist, he was freezing. He wrapped his bleeding hand around himself tightly, and picked up the torch again in his good one. His lamp was empty now. He gave it a regretful look. It had killed the Orc for him, but it was of no more use. He left it lying on the ground and faced the yawning tunnel again.

"Can't go back," he muttered, and waved the torch forward into the gloom. There was a bend ahead, and no sign of any other light. It seemed as though the tunnel would never end. "Got to go forward."

Maybe his dad was somewhere ahead? He hadn't seen hide nor hair of any Dale-Men. All the guards that had been waiting with Gimizh had disappeared, and he tried not to think about them smothered under the cold, clammy weight of the earth. Hopefully they had been on the other side of the cave-in, and had already been rescued. He hoped so. Jeri was nice, and Agur usually had a treat for a big-eyed Dwarfling who looked sad and sorrowful enough.

He began to trot along the tunnel once more, tremors shaking his body. One day he would have a splendid furry chest (just like Uncle Gimli!) to keep himself warm. One day, he told himself firmly, and tried not to let his teeth chatter.

Quests were _stupid._

"Who's there!" snapped a voice in the dark.

Gimizh yelped, startled out of his numb and terrified thoughts. "Please don't hurt me!" he said, his breath coming fast and rough, the cold air hurting his throat. "I'm dangerous, I am! I killed an Orc, an' I'm a mighty warrior, an' I'll... I'll cut you into a million bits if you come close!"

There was a pause, and then a soft, familiar laugh. "Now there's a terrible thing."

Gimizh's breath slammed into his body like a charging Oliphaunt, crushing his chest under its weight. Then he was barrelling forward blindly, his torch left somewhere in the dirt. "Adad, adad, adad, adad," he sobbed, and his hands reached forward to touch familiar braids, a curling moustache, a thick and solid chest.

"Ooof!" said Bofur, and he was really really real! Gimizh wanted to crow from the top of the Mountain – or he would, if he could stop crying.

"What is this?" came another voice, hissing angrily, and Bofur shook his head.

"Stand down, Bard, no danger," he said. "This is my boy, Gimizh."

Unknown hands picked up Gimizh's torch, holding it high and illuminating the corridor. Gimizh couldn't find the energy to wonder who it was. He could only clutch at his father and bury his face in Bofur's chest and cry and cry and cry.

"Didn't know they actually had children," came a whisper from further along the tunnel. "Thought they were carved from stone and that..."

"You're a credulous ole simpleton then, aren't you?" someone whispered back. "That's a child if ever I saw one."

Gimizh simply couldn't seem to stop crying. "I fought an Orc, Daddy, just like Uncle Gimli, an' it didn't m-move anymore because I killed it, me, an' I promised I'd f-find you..."

"Hush, me little warrior, you found me," Bofur said, and his fingers were oddly clumsy as he felt over Gimizh's face. "You're bleeding. Why in Mahal's blessed name are y' down here?"

"The King said, w-wait by the tunnel and take messages, but I got bored an' w-went in," Gimizh babbled, and he clung to Bofur's neck as the tears trickled down his face and streaked his bare chest. "The roof came down on me, an' I couldn't find Jeri, an' I killed an Orc that hissed at me and my hand got hurt The tunnel's b-blocked, so I came this way. I f-fixed a torch, but I lost my shirt and jacket. I heard clashing. I think there's fighting on the other side."

"There's been fierce fighting this side too, me lad, but it seems they're mostly focused on gettin' into the Mountain," Bofur said, and there was a heavy reluctance in his voice. "They've all gone the other way, trusting that the limited air will do their dirty work for 'em. Thankfully it seems we're a small prize compared to Erebor- and thankfully they never reckoned with Dwarvish engineering. The sea'll rise before our air-pipes fail. That's a bit o' luck, eh?"

"I'm the happiest Dwarf in the M-mountain," Gimizh said, his face still pressed against Bofur's chest. The brocades of his father's jacket rubbed against his cheek and lips as he spoke. The familiar scent that clung to his skin underneath the smell of blood and dirt caused something to snap and unwind, deep in his stomach. The tears finally trickled to a halt as Bofur rubbed his back with one wide hand, and Gimizh wiped at his eyes, and sniffled. "Are you all right?"

"Here, take my coat," Bofur said abruptly, and he pulled away to take off his jacket and wrap it around Gimizh's shoulders. "You'll catch your death an' your mother will have my beard. Well, after she's done flaying us both alive for putting ourselves in such a damn-fool situation, that is."

"Tell him," said the Man that Bofur had called Bard in a sharp tone. "We have no time, and he must be our eyes."

"All right, keep yer hair on," Bofur retorted.

Gimizh frowned. "Dad, what aren't you saying?"

"Know me too well, don't you?" Bofur grinned, staring blankly out into the tunnel. "Now, me little lad, I'm terribly proud of how brave you are, facing that Orc an' keeping your head. I don't want to have to do this, but there's no other way. These Dale-Men don't know a damn thing about moving underground. I need you to be the bravest you have _ever_ been."

"Very brave, the bravest!" Gimizh agreed. Then he screwed up his face. "Why?"

Bofur took a long, slow breath and said, "Gimizh, my nidoyel, you must do something for me now. You'll have to guide me."

Something struck Gimizh then. "Dad," he said slowly. "Why aren't you looking at me?"

"That's just the thing, undayuh," sighed Bofur, and he lifted his chin as though preparing himself. "When the beams came down, the Men had to drag me out from under 'em. I'm whole enough, only a broken arm, I think, but something hit my head. There was a white flash, and then everything went black, and it's been black ever since. I can't see."

Gimizh stared at his father in shock.

"Guess we just have Mahal's own luck when it comes to bein' knocked on the noggin," Bofur added wryly.

* * *

It was a nightmare made real.

Thorin pushed through the layers of dirt and rock and fallen wood, his scream trapped behind his teeth. His chest heaved, though his mind insisted that he was suffocating. He imagined that he could _feel_ the soil and the rock and the beams gliding through skin and flesh and bone and sinew, smooth as an Elven sword through water. He retched, and clenched his eyes shut. He would press on. He _would_ press on.

There were voices ahead. Thorin's eyes snapped open reflexively, and then he squeezed them shut again. Too soon. He had only been afforded the tiniest glimpse – barely a fraction of a second – but even that was too much.

For an underground race, this was the ultimate horror.

He staggered onwards. The sounds kept growing in volume, distorting in his ears as though through water. The echoes were smothered by the press of rock and soil, and Thorin's scream was slowly but surely crawling its way up his throat. He could taste it, crouching just behind his tongue.

Though he could breathe, his mind insisted that he was suffocating. His lungs ached like a wound. Every beat of his pulse sent the blood racing around his body in a mad dance. He could feel it in the throb behind his eyelids.

_I will not die like this, cowering, clawing for breath!_

"You are dead!" he growled at himself, at his foolish fears. "You are already _dead!_ You are but a thought and a whisper in the waking world. Dís would make endless sport of you if she could see you now. Take heart. Take heart! For all your faults, you are neither craven nor coward, at least. Pull yourself together!"

_Cowering, clawing for breath!_

Thorin pushed on, and the sounds of battle behind him and the murmur of voices ahead began to take on a distorted, nightmarish incoherency. He let out a wordless shout of protest at the clashing in his ears, his own voice adding to the reeling cacophony of noise.

"Calm down!" said Bilbo.

"Oh, thank Mahal!" Thorin nearly collapsed, the words tripping and tumbling out of his mouth. "Bilbo, Bilbo my own, thank you, thank Mahal, thank the Maker..."

"One foot after the other," Bilbo said soothingly. "Come on then!"

Thorin staggered forward, his hands outstretched before him. The stones grated against his bones as they passed through him, and he bit his lip, hard. Blood welled in his mouth. "Bilbo!" he gasped.

"Nearly, nearly," coaxed Bilbo. Thorin wished he were brave enough to dare another peek, to see if his Hobbit slid through the earth alongside him, but he dared not risk it again. Once was more than enough. "Keep on keeping on, as Hamfast used to say."

"That is your neighbour, is it not?" asked Thorin though he knew perfectly well that it was. He could think of absolutely nothing else to say. His mind was a mess of rock and panic.

"Mmm. Young Sam's father. He tended the garden at Bag End since before my holiday, you know. Local expert on potatoes."

"Potatoes," Thorin echoed.

"Yes, potatoes," Bilbo said, and there was a smile on his lips. Thorin could hear it in the warmth of the words and feel it in the unknotting of his limbs. "White floury lumpy things that grow underground and dislike sunlight. I expect you to show some fellow-feeling."

"Are you calling me lumpy?"

"Lumpy enough. I _do_ know what a Dwarf looks like underneath his armour, remember."

Thorin's mouth twitched. "And did the sight please you?"

"Oh, fishing for compliments now? Most dignified of you, O mighty King Under the Mountain. Besides, I might be calling you a vegetable," Bilbo sniffed.

Thorin let his laugh bubble up, drowning any lingering memory of that clawing scream. "Impertinent Hobbit."

"Pompous Dwarf. Keep moving."

Suddenly there was air surrounding them, and Thorin's eyes snapped open again. The rock no longer closed around him, and he stumbled forward onto his hands and knees and panted, gasping.

He managed to get himself under control after a few moments, and looked up to see his young, vital One standing in the darkness. Bilbo's face was proud and his head was held at a jaunty angle.

"There, now," Bilbo said in satisfaction. And vanished.

* * *

Kíli sighed and leaned his head upon his hands.

"So great a sigh, my son?" said his Maker gently, and Kíli glanced up without thinking only to jerk his gaze away from the wise and glorious face, blinking hard.

"Ow," he mumbled, before gingerly looking up again through cautiously-narrowed eyes.

"Be careful," Mahal said. "I have repaired your eyes once already."

Kíli pulled a face, before shading his eyes with one hand. "Hobbits are really titchy. Really small, even littler than Frerin. They don't take up much room."

"So you have said before."

"And they're excellent cooks. And grow superb pipeweed. And they brew fantastic beer. You'd like it."

"No doubt."

"And I'm sure Mandos doesn't need all of them. He's being really selfish, keeping them all to himself. He should share some with you. Or y'know, at least one. They brighten up a place."

"Yes, so I have heard."

Kíli sighed again, and let his head roll forward, hitting his hands with a thud. "You're not making this easy."

"No, my son," Mahal agreed mildly. "That I am not."

Kíli grumbled under his breath for a moment, and then he shrugged and looked up once more. "So, is the glowy thing gone for good now, out and about where we can't go? Is it in the world yet? Are you gonna tell me what it was? Won't it attract a lot of notice – I can't imagine a big glowy thing being terribly inconspicuous, somehow. What was it made of? Can it burn things? I can keep on asking questions, you know. I've got hundreds more."

"Soon," Mahal said in that voice that shuddered through Kíli's very flesh. The Vala put down his hammer, and then stepped back from the anvil, his great shaggy head tipping as he regarded the shape and soul of the Dwarf he was building. Then he let out a gust of breath like a mighty wind and sat down upon a chair (or was it an embryonic mountain, complete with forests and glaciers and cloudy-headed peak, growing even as Kíli watched?), still considering his work. "Soon. The time grows ever nearer when it will emerge and be known once more. And it is not a fire as you understand one, but a spirit: a spirit reforged and burning anew. But you do not tell me why you sigh so loudly, Kíli."

Kíli's gaze skittered away. "Uh, no, well spotted there."

His Maker reached down and tugged at Kíli's mad hair. "You do not normally find it difficult to speak, Kíli. Which of your hundred questions is troubling you?"

Kíli was silent.

Mahal turned with knitted brows to fix the unnaturally quiet young Dwarf under his gaze. "Nathânûn."

A shudder ran up his spine like lightning, and Kíli blurted, "where do Elves go?"

Mahal paused with his fingers still caught in Kíli's hair.

"Because... well," Kíli checked himself, and then grasped at one of those huge, burn-scarred fingers with both hands. "You know. You have to know. I haven't said anything before. I won't ever again, if it's not right to know. But I need to try, just once. Where is she? Please."

The mighty bearded head stooped, and then Mahal murmured, "I should have foreseen this. Speaking with your uncle has brought it close, I see."

"It's always close," Kíli said, and he lifted his chin.

"Of course it is," Mahal said, and he smiled distantly. "Of course."

"So where is she?" Kíli pressed, and then he bit hard on his lip. "Can you tell me? I mean, are you allowed?"

"My brother Námo is something of a mystery," said the eternal Smith. "His Halls are ever-shifting and ever-drifting, a part of this continent and yet separate, joined to the world and outside of it all at once."

Kíli frowned.

"Men and Hobbits and those of mortal kind are not tied to this earth in the way the Firstborn are," Mahal continued. "Not even my Dwarves are so tightly connected to the earth, for all that they were made from it. You have been given this place of calm and respite before the world is remade, but Elves do not truly ever leave. All other souls go onwards, beyond Middle-Earth, to a fate that not even my brother Manwë knows. And so Men and Hobbits and Ents do not reside in the Halls of Mandos after they enter there, but are instead set free to go where we may not. It is the Gift of Eru Ilúvatar to the Secondborn."

"Not much of a gift, to be shunted around like a parcel sent to a mystery address," Kíli said impatiently, still gnawing on his lip. "Elves?"

"Elves cannot move on," Mahal said, and his thumb smoothed over Kíli's forehead. "I am sorry, Kíli. Elves do not leave the Halls the way mortal-kind does. They reside there until the ending of the world, and rarely does my brother loosen his grip. There lives an Elf in Rivendell who has passed through his doors – Glorfindel, he of the golden hair – but not since the dawn of Arda has Námo relented in his iron devotion to his given task. You might as well ask me to stop my work."

Kíli blinked. "At the ending of the world."

"Aye."

"That's the world we're standing on, right? I just want to be clear."

Mahal raised one grizzled eyebrow. "Aye?"

"The one we're meant to rebuild after Dagor Dagorath?"

The giant fingers halted in their stroking of Kíli's hair.

Kíli beamed. "Thought so."

"You would wait so long?" Mahal asked incredulously. "The years that must pass are beyond counting."

Kíli set his jaw and looked up into the radiant face of his Creator without flinching. "I would wait twice as long," he said firmly.

"Ach, brave child," said the Vala softly, "I built loyalty into your bones. I did not understand how deep it settled."

"I will see her again," Kíli said, and he beamed once more, his heart as light as air. "Who cares about the years in between? With a hope like that, I could move Taniquetil pebble by pebble! I could swim the sundering seas! I could eat a whole bowl of salad! I will see Tauriel again!"

* * *

"You found them?" asked Frerin.

Thorin collapsed in a chair. Even the sourceless grey light of the Halls was preferable to the tunnels beneath Erebor. "Aye. I need a drink."

Frís set a tankard by his hand, and Thorin drank deeply and only paused when the suds began to trickle into his beard. "Slowly," Frís cautioned him. "You'll choke."

"Bofur's really blind?" said Fíli, his voice small and shocked.

Thorin stilled, his tankard halfway to his mouth. Then he nodded. Fíli blew out a breath and slumped back in his chair. "Maker have mercy," he said numbly.

"There is little mercy in those tunnels," Thorin rasped. "Yet Gimizh lives, a miracle indeed. They are trapped somewhere beyond the fallen ceiling, and cannot reach Erebor. They must go back towards Dale and undoubtedly into the teeth of even more Orcs, or starve in the darkness."

"What about the Prince and the others, on the Mountain's side of the cave-in?" said Frerin, frowning. "Can they not dig through?"

Thorin sighed. "I returned to them and spoke to Wee Thorin. That he believes his friend to be alive is no great surprise to the others. I only bolstered his conviction. It will take fierce fighting to see off the Orcs that even now continue to pour into the tunnels."

Thrór shared a glance with Hrera, and then he closed his eyes to hide his fears. Around him, the family sat in a tense silence. None of them mentioned the other possible option: to collapse the entire tunnel and so cut off the Orcs' entry.

"You're worn-out, nadad," said Frerin, and he hastily refilled the tankard, spilling a little as his jug sloshed onto the table. "Drink that."

"What of the Fellowship?" Thorin said after he had taken a few swallows. "How is Gimli?"

"Subdued," said Frerin, and he shrugged. "He knew I was there. He greeted me by name. Still, he speaks eagerly enough to Aragorn, Merry, the Lady Éowyn and to King Théoden. They ride to Dunharrow now to meet with the muster of the Rohirrim."

"And Legolas?" Thorin lifted his eyes to meet his brother's. "Does he speak to Legolas?"

Frerin hesitated. Then he blurted, "they ride together as they have ever done, but they speak no more than necessary."

Thorin let his head fall forward. "Curse it all," he said softly, and then stood with aching limbs and set down his empty tankard. "I will see Bilbo now."

"And then bed," Frís said, eyes glinting sternly.

"And then bed," he agreed tonelessly.

* * *

The Elf was tall and elegant, with smooth dark hair and a heart-stoppingly beautiful face... but then, they all were. Thorin slumped in exhaustion beside the Elf and squinted up at him accusingly. "You could move over a little," he groused. His heart ached. His every muscle ached. His _hair_ ached. "And your harp-playing is insipid and bland."

The Elf, naturally, could not hear him. Thorin folded his arms and glowered at where his Hobbit hovered over a board, a playing piece clutched in his little wrinkled hand. "Now, which way do these move again?" he mused.

"This way, Bilbo," said Arwen gently. Her eyes were ringed in dark shadows, and her cheeks had become hollowed. Thorin glanced over her, his brows lowering.

Bilbo peered at the board with watery eyes as she moved the piece, and then he shook his head. "No: it's no good, I shan't be able to play Lanthir, I don't understand it in the slightest. You'll have to find another victim, Lady Arwen."

She smiled. "I would prefer no other partner."

"Oh, now, that's a fib." Bilbo put down the little game-piece in his hand and yawned. "Goodness me, is that the time?"

Arwen looked up at the clock, and then back down at the ancient Hobbit with a sad sort of understanding. "It is only four hours past the midday meal, Bilbo."

"Mmmm, terribly late," he mumbled, and his head began to nod. Then he jerked his chin up, blinking hard. "No, no, I had to do something, what was it?"

Arwen shared a glance with the harpist, before she said, "perhaps you wished to water your garden?"

"I'm sure it was important," Bilbo muttered, and his withered hands plucked at the blanket over his knees. "Blast this memory – more full of holes than a doily, it is. You know, you really aren't looking well, Lady Arwen. I hope you're not coming down with something?"

Arwen's glorious eyes widened, and then she turned away with uncharacteristic sharpness. Her lips were pressed into a thin line of pain. "It is nothing," she said.

Thorin's brow furrowed. "Never seen an Elf look less than healthy," he mumbled to himself. "Yet there are dark rings beneath her eyes, and her cheeks are pale and wan..."

"I might be a little fuzzy on fine details these days, but I am neither dense nor blind!" Bilbo said crisply, and he lifted his chin in his most haughty manner. Thorin nearly smiled at it: how familiar it was, and how dear. "It is not 'nothing' – it is clearly a 'something', and I would very much like to be told what it is!"

Arwen was still for a moment, and then her head tipped forward, covering her face in a waterfall of black silk. "Indeed, you are not blind, but one hardly needs the sight of the Elves to see it," she said in her low, musical voice. "I am not well, Master Baggins. I may not recover."

"Not recover?" exclaimed Bilbo. "How now, what's this? Your father will fix you up in a trice, I'm sure. Why, if he can help soothe an old Hobbit's aching bones, no doubt he can have you back to your old self faster than you can say 'cabbages'!"

"But my father is not here," she said with a sigh, tipping her head back again. "You do not recall, but he left a month ago. He rides now to Edoras, in the kingdom of Rohan."

"He does?" Bilbo grimaced. "Blast, must have slipped my mind. Well, you're an Elf-maid at any rate: no doubt you've the constitution of an ox. I never heard of an Elf with... what is it, anyway?"

Arwen's jaw tensed.

Bilbo's breath caught and snagged in his throat, and he leaned forward. "Lady, it is not...?" he gasped.

She nodded once.

Bilbo stared at her in horrified silence, and then he slumped back against his cushions, his eyes huge in his withered face. "Good gracious," he said faintly.

"What, what is it?" Thorin demanded, and he stood up to examine the Elf more closely, though every muscle protested vociferously. "What is the matter with her?"

"Can it not be halted?" Bilbo asked, his voice quavering. "Can it be stopped?"

"You know better than that, Bilbo," she said with a bitter little smile. "You know more of our ways than the wisest of the younger races, save Aragorn himself. You _know_ that I cannot halt it."

"But you are not wholly Elven," Bilbo protested, and he twisted his hands together, the gnarled knuckles cracking. "Perhaps that will stump it."

"No." Arwen waved a slim hand at the harpist, and he bowed his head and stood. His robes swept the floor of the autumn leaves as he left.

Arwen took his seat, and then laid her hands over Bilbo's fidgeting ones. "I cannot halt it, nor do I wish to," she said, her voice intense and her eyes blazing in her pale and ghostly face. "My father," she spat, and then she closed her eyes. "My father wished to spare me this. He wanted to send me over the seas, where no sickness dwells and no evil can touch me. But my sickness would have followed me there. I am tied to this Middle-Earth now, and no power of darkness or light can sever it."

"No!" Bilbo said hotly. "That's a dreadful thing to say! Just imagine, throwing yourself away for a silly thing like _love_ \- piffle and tommyrot! Aragorn might be quite a remarkable fellow, but he's hardly the only one around. Why, the world is full of remarkable fellows, if they're to your taste. For goodness' sake! You're too remarkable yourself to go about pining to death!"

"It is my nature," she said, and squeezed Bilbo's hands. "And I have made my choice."

"Well, choose again!" Bilbo fumed.

"As easily as that?" said Arwen softly. "So you could have accepted another Dwarf in place of your dead King, could you?"

Thorin's throat abruptly snapped closed.

"Well, now that's hardly..." Bilbo spluttered, and then he scowled. "That's not nearly the same, and you know it! At any rate, I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Yes," she said, and her eyes were full of sympathy. "You are."

"Ghivashel," Thorin breathed, and his hand rose seemingly of its own volition to cup that wasted, wrinkled cheek. If he hovered it just above the skin, he could almost believe the illusion that he was touching his Hobbit at last.

Illusion was better than nothing.

"I mean..." Bilbo flustered, and his mouth worked uselessly for a moment. "Now, wait just a moment, I never..."

"No you did not, but then Hobbits are not Elves," said Arwen, and she knelt before him, her hands still clasped over his. Her fingers appeared even more eerily white and elongated compared to Bilbo's work-worn hands, brown from the sun and with their calluses from his little garden tools. "Yet your heart went on without you, did it not? You know something of this yourself."

Bilbo regarded her evenly. "Hobbits are infinitely more _sensible_ than Elves," he snapped. "And where my heart went is nobody else's business but my own!"

"Bilbo," said Arwen,with infinite gentleness. "You do not fool those with eyes to see it."

"Pssh, stuff and nonsense," he muttered. "Melodramatic fancies and histrionics - it's all that poetry you read, I'll wager!"

Arwen's eyebrows rose. "You write poetry yourself, do you forget?"

"Yes, _yes,_ but I wouldn't go around _dying_ simply because of a silly Dwarf," Bilbo continued. His tone remained indignant and huffy, but there were tears glittering in the faded eyes. "And neither should you. What rot! I mean, I had so many things to do, didn't I? I had my books, and Bag End, and my garden, didn't I? And then there was my young Frodo-lad, where would he have been if I hadn't stepped in, hmm? Lost in that dusty old labyrinth of a Smial, surrounded by a horde of bothersome Brandybucks, that's where! But I fixed that, I did, and a good thing too! Keeping busy, that's the key!"

"Bilbo," sighed Arwen. "Bilbo, mellon..."

"Take some advice, my dear," Bilbo said, his voice cracking. He dashed at his eyes with a rough swipe of his hand. "Keep yourself busy. Who needs them, eh? You've got two hands, don't you? You'll be well enough, you'll see. After a while you'll smile again. One day, you'll laugh. So what if life is a little bit greyer than before? Time marches on, and so must we. The Road isn't always smooth, but it never ends."

"Would that I had your spirit," Arwen said. "But alas, I am an Elf. And my father's blood aside, I live the life of an Elf, and so I must endure its sorrows."

"But you could live the life of a Man, you get to pick," Bilbo argued, and he shook her hands in his. "Think! Don't just lie there and wilt like a summer flower!"

She smiled, despite herself. "I have thought on it long and well, Master Baggins. And yes, that is the life I would choose. But that life grows more and more doubtful, and in my choice lies another doom."

"Melodrama and theatrics," Bilbo muttered, and he wiped at his eyes again and lifted his chin defiantly, as though daring her to comment on his tears. "Well, we can't have this at all, it simply won't do. I'll have to do something about it."

Arwen smiled again. "I truly believe that you could."

"Well, yes, you should. Did I tell you that I once rode an Eagle? I'm not one to be trifled with," Bilbo huffed. He yawned.

"Then our course is clear. We shall attack the problem tomorrow," she said, and pulled the blanket up around his knees.

"Hmm, tomorrow. Yes, I'm tired," Bilbo mumbled, and his head began to nod again. Then he opened one eye and squinted at the fading trees. "Fall came early, don't you think? It'll be apple season soon. I'll need to put a store in, remind me to talk to Toby Hornblower. I fancy making my great-grandmother's apple sauce again this year. Yes, so much to do, so much to do..."

His voice trailed off as his head bobbed on his chest, and within moments the old Hobbit was asleep.

"He tires so easily," Arwen whispered. "I should not have angered him."

"You didn't anger him," Thorin sighed. "Believe me, I know what he is like when he is angry."

No, the Elf-maid had upset him. There was a rather fine difference, but over the long years Thorin had learned to distinguish between the types of Hobbitish bluster and indignation.

Arwen stood and turned her fair face to the south. "Keeping busy, what an odd way to put it," she said to the seemingly-empty air, her black-silk hair curling about her shoulders, tugged by the cool autumn air. "I am not like Bilbo. I have gambled my life on a fast-fading hope, casting my lot with that of Men. My people now belong to history, and my fate belongs to the Ring of Power. Can I carry on as Hobbits do, even though my hope lies so far away?"

"Bilbo is right, you are far too melodramatic," Thorin muttered as she turned away and began to make her way through the dappled light towards the Last Homely House, her train trailing in the red leaves behind her.

"Oh, that's terribly rich, coming from you," came the well-loved voice once more, and Thorin's breath slammed back into his body with a jolt. A smile began to bloom on his lips, all unknowing, as he turned to see the young and vital Bilbo of his dreams standing behind him.

"Tell me, O great King, have you perchance heard the phrase, 'the pot calling the kettle black'?" laughed the Hobbit.

"Dwarves have a similar phrase," Thorin said, and he drank in the sight of the brownish-blond curls, the wry little face, the clever tilt to the mouth, the lively eyes. "Hello again, sanâzyunguh."

"Well? Don't leave it there," said the Hobbit, and he crossed his arms with an expectant look on his face. "Honestly, sometimes I think you are cryptic simply for the fun of it."

"Ah, truly you know me well," Thorin smiled. "Keep it close, I have a reputation to maintain."

Bilbo snorted. Behind Thorin, the sleeping ancient Hobbit made a soft snuffling noise. "Don't be preposterous, thank you very much. The phrase?"

"We say, 'the forge and the hearth both eat coal'," Thorin replied, and he glanced back at the sleeping Bilbo, frail and doddering. "You there, and you here. I am doubly blessed by your presence. Even if you are a trick of my mind, I find myself well content."

"I think the Hobbit phrase is better," Bilbo said, and he tipped his head. "A trick of your mind?"

"Aye," said Thorin drily. "Kinder than its usual tricks, however. Have you not noticed yourself, sitting in that chair?"

Bilbo peered around Thorin, and upon seeing the wizened old Hobbit with the flyaway white hair, his eyes went round as saucers. "Oh."

"Indeed. 'Oh'," Thorin agreed.

"But I..." Bilbo frowned.

In his nodding sleep, the old Hobbit in the chair frowned also.

"Wait," said Bilbo, and he took a step forward, staring at himself in fascination. The old Hobbit's lips moved around the word: _wait_.

Thorin's heart jumped, and then beat a little faster in his chest. A wild and impossible thought was forming in his muddled and weary head. "Speak again," he commanded, and he gazed intently at the sleeping Hobbit.

"A 'please' wouldn't have gone astray," Bilbo said haughtily, and sure enough, the ancient Hobbit's lips moved and his wasted face drew up into familiar lines of indignation.

Thorin's mouth slowly opened in amazement, and he turned his head from side to side, trying to stare at both Bilbos at once. "Ma mahdijn... _No, it cannot be."_

"That's me, isn't it," Bilbo said, and the old Hobbit mumbled in his slumber. "That's _me."_

"This cannot be possible!" Thorin exclaimed. "Speak, Bilbo!"

" _Please,"_ Bilbo said, and his ears were mottling in anger. "It's not such a difficult word to say! Honestly now! You're usually much more pleasant than this in my dreams. You're nearly back to your old self, and that's saying something."

Thorin whipped around to see if this speech had any effect on the sleeper – and sure enough, the aged Bilbo mumbled crossly under his breath, and then subsided back into his sleep.

"I don't understand," Bilbo said plaintively from behind him. "It's just a dream, like all the other dreams. They fade away in the morning light."

"Your dreams," said Thorin slowly. "Bilbo, I am not a dream."

"Then what are you?" Bilbo shot back. "You can't be real, you're dead as a doornail and buried under the Mountain. I know that much, I was there! I'm not so senile as all that!"

"This is not possible," Thorin said in awe. "Mahal be merciful, but let it be so!"

"If you're not a dream, how can you be here? You're _dead_!" said Bilbo, and he shook his head in confusion. "And I'm.. wait, I can never remember it..."

"Aye, I am long dead," said Thorin. "And it appears that you do not dream idly."

"I can never remember," Bilbo repeated in frustration, and then he paled. "Do you mean..."

"It _is_ you," Thorin breathed, and he wanted to sing, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to weep. "In all these endless cold years of watching and wishing, I had never hoped for so much."

"Are you telling me that you've been... with me, all this time?" Bilbo said stiffly, swallowing hard.

"I have never left," Thorin said, and such great good fortune could not possibly be his - the Valar would never look so kindly upon a miserable Dwarf - it could not be so! "And you are truly my Hobbit, and not some figment of my sorrow?"

"Your Hobbit?" Bilbo whirled onto him, and his face was pinched in fury. " _Your_ Hobbit?"

Thorin blinked in astonishment. "I... I..."

"Thorin Oakenshield, the arrogance of you!" Bilbo fumed.

"Bilbo," Thorin said, jerking back in surprise and dismay - and then Bilbo vanished. "Bilbo! _Bilbo!_ I am sorry, Bilbo, so sorry – please, come back, please – please, idùzhibuh, _please!"_

But the younger Hobbit did not reappear. Thorin let out a strangled shout of frustration and loss, and fell to his hands and knees. " _Bilbo!"_

The old Hobbit in the chair was weeping in his sleep.

"But I made you a pen," Thorin said to the empty air, kneeling helplessly amid the windblown autumn leaves.

* * *

  
[](http://mamma-scandinavia.tumblr.com/post/103679323768/so-the-bae-got-me-hooked-on-a-fanfiction-called)  
But I made you a pen, by [mamma-scandinavia](http://mamma-scandinavia.tumblr.com/post/103679323768/so-the-bae-got-me-hooked-on-a-fanfiction-called)  


  
  
But I made you a pen, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/108147708410/fanart-for-the-lovely-dettermanfidd-i-love-her)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Laerophen – Tree-Song  
> Lanthir - Waterfall
> 
> **Khuzdul**  
>  Bizarûnh - Men of Dale  
> Gimizh – Wild One  
> Amradamnârab – Death (to make a) deal, i.e. Death-dealer  
> Du Bekâr – to arms!  
> Dwalinul – son of Dwalin  
> Undayuh – my greatest boy  
> gamil bâhûn- Old friend  
> Nathânûn – laughing river  
> Gimlîn-zâram – star-pool  
> Ghivashel – Treasure of all treasures  
> Sanâzyunguh – my pure/perfect love  
> Ma mahdijn – I do not believe  
> Idùzhibuh- my diamond
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the films.
> 
> ...
> 
> Dunharrow – A refuge of the Rohirrim in the White Mountains, this was a clifftop over the Harrowdale, looking down upon the river Snowbourn. A tall winding path, known as 'The Stair of the Hold', led up to a plateau known as the "Firienfield", where soldiers and refugees customarily made their camps. Behind this field lay the stones that marked the path to the Dimholt, and the Paths of the Dead.
> 
> Manwë – King of the Ainur and first of the Valar (The Elder King). Married to Varda Elentári (Elbereth), beloved of the Elves. His realm is the airs and winds of the world, and eagles are his messengers. Of all the Ainur, he was chosen to be the leader – though he was not the most powerful. Melkor (Morgoth) was more powerful than he. He was a kind, compassionate ruler – but he did not understand evil or malice. Through his naiveté, many evils were released. The Vanyar are his favourite Elves, and they live with him on Mount Taniquetil.
> 
> Námo – The Doomsman of the Valar. He is more commonly known by the name of his Halls: Mandos. He is the keeper of the Slain. Vairë the Weaver is his wife. Nienna the Weeper is his sister.
> 
> The Gift of Men – The "gift" that Mahal speaks of is death. Though it was decreed that the Elves would find more bliss and create more beauty than any other race, it was through this Gift that Men would become the shapers of the future. Elves (the Firstborn) do not die until the world itself dies, and if they are killed by chance or misfortune, they are gathered in the Halls of Mandos to wait for Dagor Dagorath (the final battle between the powers – basically, Ragnarok).  
> With this Gift to the Secondborn, Eru Ilúvatar made it so that mortals would find no contentment within Arda, and would therefore seek beyond the world and its bonds after death. The Spirits of Men leave the world entirely and do not return after death. Hobbits, as with all the Younger Children of Ilúvatar, share in the Gift of Men. Many mortals have striven to avoid the Gift – the Nazgûl, and Sméagol himself among them – but in the end, even the Valar will envy the Gift of Ilúvatar.
> 
> Glorfindel –"Golden-haired". He was a Noldo lord, and travelled from Aman to Arda with the host of Turgon and dwelt in Gondolin. When Gondolin fell, he slew the Balrog that assailed it and was slain himself. There is some controversy surrounding whether it is the reincarnation of this same Glorfindel who we see in Rivendell during the books: here, I have decided to use the reincarnation theory. It was this mighty Elf warrior who first made the prophecy about the Witch-King of Angmar: that no mortal man could kill him.
> 
> Taniquetil – the highest peak in the entire world, part of the Pelóri range in Aman. The thrones of Manwë and Varda sit upon their summit.
> 
> "Dusty old Labyrinth of a smial" – Brandy Hall, the huge sprawling home of the Brandybuck clan, first dug by Gorhendad Oldbuck. The Master of this Hall was regarded as the local authority between the villages of Stock and Rushey. Frodo Baggins was fostered here until his 99-year-old cousin Bilbo Baggins adopted him in at the age of _twenty-one_.
> 
> The Half-Elven: Unlike other Elves, the Half-Elven were able to choose their fates. They could be counted amongst the Elven Firstborn (Elrond chose this path) or amongst the Secondborn, Men (his brother Elros chose this path, and became the first High King of Númenor). The children of Elrond are also granted this choice.
> 
> The female orc in this chapter is NOT Dâgalûr daughter of Bolg, but a common foot-soldier. There is more than one female orc in Middle-Earth, I promise ;)
> 
> ...
> 
> AND NOW A COMIC  
> Namo and Glorfindel, by [thisistheartsblog](http://thisistheartsblog.tumblr.com/post/98904532473/there-lives-an-elf-in-rivendell-who-passed)!  
>   
>  
> 
> _I can be found on tumblr (as can[all the AMAZING fanart for this story](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost)!) at [determamfidd.tumblr.com](determamfidd.tumblr.com)_


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the ever-growing Sansûkh Masterpost](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost) on my tumblr! It is a fab thing of extreme awesomitude. (If I haven't got your particular work on there, LET ME KNOW. Sometimes I don't get a chance to update it immediately, and thereafter it slips my mind SORRY SORRY MEA MAXIMA CULPA).
> 
> (ALSO ALSO omfg i am so excited about [Dain's theme](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/102437326713/kingofiron-king-dain-ironfoots-theme-a-song) you have no idea HOT DAMN DUTIFUL HERO DWARF OF MY HEART YESSSSSS)
> 
> Onwards!

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

* * *

"Thorin?"

Thorin looked up from the still, dark waters of the pool of Gimlîn-zâram. His face felt rubbery and numb, and his cheeks were sticky with the residue of his tears.

"Come on," said Frís quietly, and took his hand.

* * *

" _Why? He is none of thine."_

" _You misunderstand, Aulë. You may be their author, but they are not unloved by others. I see that Nienna herself has shed tears for him: this is proof enough, surely."_

" _Irmo-"_

" _With thy own hands thou hast shaped him, with thy breath thou hast filled his lungs. With thy art thou hast gifted him above all others, spinning him a thread back to his lost hope. What then have I done, but strengthened that thread?"_

Thorin shifted uneasily in his sleep.

" _His voice may touch the sleeping mind, the subconscious, may it not? For that is the Gift you granted."_

" _You know this is true."_

" _And that is_ my _dominion. A single voice, calling across the sea. A single soul swimming against the tide along the Olórë Mallë. Of_ course _I noticed."_

" _And so you meddled."_ His maker's voice, gentle thunder shaking the air. Thorin let out a long sigh as his restlessness eased, and as softly as snow settling, sleep began to claim him once more.

" _There, now he may rest easier. Ah, but I meddled not so much as thee. For it was thy work that made it possible, my beloved friend. Thy Gift gave him the power to reach the heart of his listener. Did you truly believe that his heart would not answer?"_

" _His heart yet lives. In Rivendell he dwells. It is not permitted to pass through the mists – you swore it and so did I!"_

" _And yet he has made his presence known beyond the mists, has he not?"_

Another silence.

" _The mind of the Hobbit now drifts. Sometimes it drifts in time, and he lingers in dreams of what might have been, weaving in and out of the measure of his days. That drifting mind thinks only of your child. Thy Gift did the rest."_

" _My...!"_

" _Aulë. You made it so that this Dwarf could reach the deepest mind, the mind beneath waking thought, the subconscious flow of a soul's self. The Hobbit thinks on your child, and his drifting mind sought him out. I was merely a guide along the path of his dreams."_

" _But he never spoke of seeing the Hobbit..."_

" _He saw his fondest, most impossible hope made manifest. From what I can perceive, this Dwarf would not trust such a hope ever again. It must have seemed that his own loneliness was given face and form. He would not trust the evidence of his eyes and heart, not after his mind had betrayed him so completely once before. Shame stilled his tongue, and the fear of madness. Is it not thus?"_

" _Aye, shame – O, I have not done well, I have wrought amiss. This is my doing. My child, my child, will the grief never leave you? Ah, Irmo, I am sorry for my accusations."_

" _You are forgiven, for in these fell days even the dawn is uncertain. And you may have wrought better than you know. For the Hobbit is not the only one to hear him."_

* * *

"Blind?" gasped Bifur.

Thorin reached out and grasped the back of Bifur's neck, bringing the wild white-and-black head close and tapping Bifur's forehead with his own. "I am sorry, gamil bâhûn."

"But..." Bifur said, and his oddly-staring eyes were wide and distraught. "Bombur can't walk, an' now Bofur can't see. Barufûnuh, ai, ayamuhud zu. Who's to look after them?"

"They're old Dwarrows now, Bifur," said his mother Bomrís gently, and she slipped her thin, worn, work-hard hand into his and squeezed. "They have family to care for them."

"But..." Bifur allowed himself to be led away, his face bereft and lost. "But they're not _me."_

Ori glanced back at Thorin, his hands twisting in his sleeves with worry. He opened his mouth as though he were about to speak, and then appeared to decide against it and scurried after Bifur and his parents.

Thorin turned back to Genna and Bomfur. The pair of merry miners were white and pinch-faced at the news of their son, and Genna had tears standing in her usually cheerful blue eyes. They looked utterly unlike their normal selves. For once, Bomfur's hearty laugh was nowhere to be heard. "Thank you," he said in a halting voice to Thorin, and beside him Genna stifled a sob. "Did you see them safe?"

Thorin hesitated a little too long, and Genna's breath caught, her hand flying to her mouth.

Thorin lowered his eyes.

Genna's round jaw firmed with determination. "Come on," she said to her husband in a low voice. "Let's go watch, then."

"I am sorry," Thorin said again, feeling the uselessness of the words.

"No need," Bomfur said distractedly, his attention firmly fixed upon his normally cheeky-faced wife. "Not your doin'."

"Come on, now," Genna insisted, and tugged at Bomfur's dark braided moustache, and he nodded once to Thorin before following her through the pearl-studded archway.

Thorin watched them go, and rubbed at his eyes. Gimizh, Bofur and the Bizarûnh still huddled in the dark, and the Stonehelm still led a futile push against the encroaching Orc sappers. _Erebor_ , sang his blood. _Erebor is breached. Erebor is breached. Erebor._

 _Bilbo,_ his heart howled, and for once his heart was louder than his blood.

"Um," said Fíli worriedly. "Thorin, you look awful."

Thorin glanced back at him and reined in his temper with a mammoth effort. "I will be well," he said, trying to keep the snap and snarl out of his voice. From the widening of Fíli's eyes, he had not succeeded very well. "I will _eventually_ be well," he corrected himself.

"What..." Fíli began, but Thorin shook his head once, sharply.

"No, namadul," he said through gritted teeth. "I will not speak of it."

"But your eyes are red, you have been weeping," Fíli said quietly, and oh, Fíli was never hesitant to stand up to him when it was important, was he? "Thorin..."

" _No,_ I said!" Thorin thundered, and then he took a step back and wiped down his face with his palm, feeling the rasp of hardened skin against his beard. "I am sorry," he managed. "I am sorry, I am sorry, I do not mean to make you the target of my ill-humour. Forgive me, Fíli."

Fíli looked bewildered. "What can I do, if you will not tell me what the matter is?"

"Ah!" Thorin let out a soft exhalation, and stepped forward to grasp at Fíli's shoulders. "Inùdoy. I do not deserve you, truly. This is not with in your power to heal. It is not your burden to carry. Let me deal with my own troubles, and do not make them yours."

Fíli shrugged, slightly sheepish. "Old habits."

"Aye, and bad habits." Thorin pressed his forehead against Fíli's, focusing as best he could on the warmth and breath of his nephew, trying to stay grounded, trying to push back the wave of emotion that threatened to crash upon him. His lungs ached as they drew in his air. "Do not worry about me."

Fíli snorted. "As well ask the sea-tide to stop in its bed."

 _Víli was right,_ Thorin thought ruefully. _They do worry, my Undayûy, and I need do nothing to prove myself worthy of it. I need merely exist, and they will care._

"It is something else, isn't it," said Fíli, and he gripped Thorin's wrists and frowned up into his face, his eyes searching. "Not Bofur, though that's hard enough to bear. Not Gimli. Something else has happened, hasn't it?"

Thorin cursed silently. When had his boisterous young lads grown so wise? First Kíli and his unending devotion and his unspoken sacrifice. Now Fíli, standing firm before his anger, able to see through his walls as though they were only smoke.

"Thorin," Fíli pressed gently, and his fingers squeezed, reassuring and insistent. "Will you hold everything inside until it turns to poison?"

Thorin let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. "Come," he said shortly, and turned on his heel towards his forge.

Somehow, it had become a place where he made not only things for use and beauty, but where he made himself anew.

He could hear Fíli walking behind him, quiet as usual. Fíli did not feel the need to fill silence, as Kíli did.

He pushed open his half-cracked door, and paused. His forge was rather bare and stark, now. He had broken so much in his rage that very little had been salvageable, and now shelves sat empty and his tool-hooks and racks stood unfilled. The room felt antiseptic and barren: hollow in a way he could not quite define. He felt his lip curl. How often had his anger destroyed what was dear and precious to him? Too often. Too often.

Fíli took a look, and then blew out a breath. "Well, you really did a number on it, didn't you?"

"I…" Thorin began, and then shook his head and took his work-stool. He had no answer to that.

Fíli picked up a thin metal tube from beneath the workbench that had somehow escaped the clean-up, and turned it over in his fingers. Then he looked up, the question clear in his eyes.

Thorin reached out and firmly took the pen-barrel out of Fíli's hands and tucked it into his jerkin.

Fíli frowned. "Thorin…"

"It is a pen, and it is for Bilbo," he interrupted. The words felt sharp and hard in his mouth, like arrowheads aimed at his poor nephew's head. "I made it for him."

Fíli's eyebrows jumped upwards. "I… see?"

Thorin wiped his palms down his face once more, feeling the rasp of his beard against his skin. Getting longer again: he would have to shear it soon. "I have been seeing him," he said into his hands.

"Well, yes," Fíli began, but Thorin let his hands drop into his lap and forged ahead.

"No, not simply watching him through the waters. He has been _here._ Here in this room. He spoke to me."

Fíli hesitated, and his eyes widened. "Um…"

"I thought it but a manifestation of my imagination," Thorin continued, his voice a low drone, his gaze fixed on his hands. "I thought him nothing more than my lonesomeness and my stupidity and my guilt."

Fíli's mouth snapped shut. Thorin glanced up, and he smiled bitterly. "Ah. I see you concur."

"Not – not exactly," Fíli said, and he took a halting step forward. "You've been so tired, so busy…"

"No, he was not my exhaustion either," Thorin snapped, and then he closed his eyes and breathed in and out, in and out.

"Help me understand?" said Fíli, and he took up the anvil and sat upon it, looking up at Thorin.

His head tilting, Thorin regarded his heir. Fíli was looking up at him with the old trust shining in his eyes: the trust Thorin had nearly lost so irrevocably. Fíli's expression was so familiar – full of devotion and eagerness and the need to impress. He absently watched his hand reach up and card through the neat blond braids, and then leaned forward to tap his forehead briefly to Fíli's. "Namadul," he said, gruff and grateful. He had been too hard on Fíli in life: he would not make such a mistake again.

"I cannot," he started, and then stopped.

Fíli waited, the silence asking the question for him.

"I do not know how it is so," Thorin managed, his voice slow and uneven. "But it is Bilbo and not some trick of my fickle, treacherous mind. It is truly our burglar. I was watching him in Rivendell, and he answered me – the old and creaking Bilbo, the true Bilbo, the _living_ Bilbo – he answered me."

"But…" Fíli shook his head in confusion.

"I do not know how," Thorin said, and he breathed out. "Some power beyond my understanding is at work here."

"But this is good, surely!" Fíli said, and he gripped Thorin's upper arms and shook gently. "This is what you have wanted!"

"And like so many things in my life, the minute I have what I want, I manage to destroy it," Thorin muttered, and he pulled away.

Fíli's jaw dropped open, and then he groaned. "What have you done."

Thorin snarled wordlessly.

"No, that isn't going to cow me, not anymore," Fíli said implacably. "What did you do?"

"My personal dealings do not need _your_ scrutiny," Thorin very nearly growled.

Fíli simply rolled his eyes. "Fine. Do I have to go wake Frerin?"

Thorin winced. "Best not."

"Oh, I don't know," Fíli pressed, crossing his arms and leaning back. There was a certain calm ruthlessness in his eyes as he regarded Thorin: if it hadn't been aimed at himself, Thorin would have been tremendously proud. "My little uncle has an uncanny way of getting you to spill your very innermost."

Thorin blinked. "Little uncle?"

Fíli smiled a trifle sheepishly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, well."

Despite the storm inside him, Thorin had to return the smile. "Yes, as you say, he has a certain way about him. Enough to get you to call him uncle, at any rate."

"Stop changing the subject," Fíli said, and Thorin made a low sound of irritation. "That is no answer."

"Fíli, izukh," Thorin grated, and let his head fall into his hands once again.

Fíli subsided, and then Thorin felt the touch of fingers upon his hair.

"This isn't as I remember it," Fíli said, his tone soft and reflective. "Knotted, too."

"Our Maker evidently has a twisted sense of humour," Thorin said, muffled by his hands. Fíli huffed a laugh, and then began to separate out strands of hair for Thorin's old style. "I cannot control it any more than I can control my foolish tongue."

"Will you not tell me?" Fíli said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I can get Grandmother or Frerin, if that would be easier for you. But I am here, Uncle. I want to help."

"You have always wanted to help," Thorin mumbled, and lifted his hand to stop Fíli's busy fingers. "Have you forgiven me?"

"What? What for?"

"For my treatment of you," Thorin clarified. "I would not blame you if you had not. I was not fair to you, Fíli. I was not kind."

"No, but you aren't kind, as a rule," Fíli said mildly. "And don't think I didn't spot you changing the subject again, either."

"I am sorry," Thorin said, and he stared at his empty, barren workroom. The pen-barrel felt heavy inside his tunic. "I am so sorry."

"I know. Turn your head, here."

"Is that all you can say?" Thorin turned his head, but not the way Fíli had indicated. He turned back to his nephew to see those blue eyes narrowed in peaceful, tired contemplation of the braid in his hands. "Fíli-"

"What, you want me to punish you?" Fíli's nose wrinkled. "No thank you, I don't intend to be the instrument of your self-hatred. This is really unmanageable, you know: I can barely get the plaits to hold. Great-grandmother must be having conniptions over it."

"I am aware," Thorin said faintly. "You should despise me."

"You're about to drown in guilt over my death again, aren't you?" Fíli sighed, and tied off one of the braids with one of the complicated knots he had so loved. "Stop it. Stop trivialising my choices. I knew what I was doing."

"Stop diminishing mine," Thorin shot back.

Fíli's laugh was fond. Fond! Thorin could not believe it. "Oh please. The only reason we have to diminish them is because you tend to inflate them beyond all rational sense. What would you have me say? No, Thorin, you were not always kind. You had high expectations of me, you pushed me, you were tough. I tried to live up to your example, and instead I found that I was made of a different metal. I never minded that Kíli received your affection and protection, and I received your sternness and ambition. We both wanted to protect him. How could I resent that? And what use is resentment here, anyway? Besides, here in the Halls, you are so different. More like you were when we were small, and less like my King… no, that's not right." Fíli made a chuffing sound of annoyance with his own words. "You're more a King here than you were in Erebor. It's almost as though I can see who you might have been, had the dragon never come. Someone calmer, someone kinder. Someone warmer. You combed my hair – you gave me _your bed,_ Th- Uncle. I was nothing more than a child the last time you treated me with such – such tenderness, such gentleness. You gave me my own detail, my own leadership. You told me you were proud of my efforts, even though they were not enough. I would have shorn my beard from my face to hear those words, once upon a time. But here, now? I'm less… I don't know how to say it. I think I know you now, who you truly are, and not my ideal of you."

 _Did I ever realise what a treasure I had? Did I know the damage I did in allowing his worship of me? Will he ever think well of me again?_ Thorin wondered, and then threw aside his pride. What good had it ever brought him? "This is well," he said eventually. "I am not someone to idealise."

"Maybe you weren't always the best you could be," said Fíli thoughtfully. "But nobody is. Uncle, there is much about you that is - that is _wonderful_. There is a _reason_ why so many here in the Halls follow you with such zeal and loyalty. You are known as a hero of our people, for Durin's sake, and it is not because you are a bad Dwarf. You weren't even a bad father-figure, for all your mistakes. You stepped into a role you were never prepared for after Adad died, and all in all you did fairly well at it. Eighty years of watching brings some perspective. I think that every parent blunders, and I think that every child must learn to see their parent as a fallible and imperfect creature – well, I forgave you your slights against me decades ago. In the great balance of things, they were not so terrible. You gave me much, Uncle. And I loved you for it."

Then Fíli's hands tugged gently upon Thorin's hair. "So did Bilbo."

Thorin let out a long, gusty sigh. "Subtle."

"We're not a subtle people. Tell me."

"Fíli…"

"Thorin. Stop hiding. Stop changing the subject. Tell me."

Thorin sat still as the deft hands carded through his wild mane, taming it, recreating a loose and regal style he had not worn in nearly eighty years. Then he made a soft sound between his teeth and reached up to touch Fíli's wrist with his fingertips. "I love you too, Fíli."

Fíli's hands paused momentarily, and then they resumed their work, more slowly than before. "I know that, too. Get on with it, we'll be here til Dagor Dagorath at this rate."

"I angered him," Thorin said, and he looked up at his ceiling, his throat bobbing rapidly as he swallowed. "I called him mine. I told him I watched him. I bade him speak again and again – I ordered him, I _commanded._ He left."

"He'll be back," Fíli said confidently.

"How can you know that?" Thorin demanded, still staring up at his ceiling. He could feel the slow seeping rise of tears against his lower lashes, quivering with his every breath.

"Bilbo is even more stubborn than you are," Fíli said, and he tied off the last of the braids and let it swing forward before his right ear. "In fact, he might just be the most stubborn, ornery creature who has ever lived. There, now you look like yourself."

"But…"

"It must have been a rather nasty shock," Fíli continued, and he began to gather together the hair for Thorin's lineage clasp, hidden at the back of his head. "Bilbo hasn't ever been one to take shocks well. At least he didn't faint!"

"Do not make light of it," muttered Thorin, and Fíli tugged at the hair in his hands.

"I'm not, I'm dead serious." Then he paused. "Dead serious. Wish Kee had heard that."

Thorin growled, deep in his chest.

"You already know what you did, so fix it," said Fíli, and Thorin felt rather than saw the bounce of his nephew's shoulders as he shrugged. "Next time, try listening to Bilbo, not talking at him."

"You seem very certain that there will be a next time," Thorin said, and the wetness at his lower lashes trembled. He gritted his jaw: he would not weep, he had wept long enough.

"If he has been seeking you out, by whatever power," Fíli said, and he put his hands upon Thorin's shoulders, "he isn't likely to give up anytime soon. He loves you despite it all, and Mahal knows you've put him through the wringer, so don't rush things. He stood by you once, vouched for you, risked his life for you, and he will remember why eventually. Give it time. In this, at least, there is no hurry."

"He is so old," Thorin sighed. "Time has never been my ally."

"Aye, he is old. Does it matter?"

"Never." Thorin stared moodily at his unlit fireplace. "I am such a fool."

"You make some spectacular gaffes, I'll give you that," Fíli chuckled. "All or nothing, that's your way."

"He must fear me so," Thorin managed, though his throat threatened to close around the words and strangle them. "I must have seemed exactly as I was when I… when…"

"Pick up and start again, Uncle. That's what you taught us." Fíli's hands settled in Thorin's hair and pressed comfortingly. "Next time."

"Next time," he echoed, and let the silence of the empty forge fill him up. His hand lifted, touching the shape of the little cylinder beneath his tunic. His fire-pit was so bare, swept of all ashes, the stone grey, naked and bleak.

Ready to be filled anew. Ready to be rekindled.

He inhaled and straightened his shoulders. "You would have made a wise King, Fíli."

Fíli's answer was very soft. "Âkminrûk zu."

* * *

It was quiet, the deep breath after the plunge.

"Are there more?" came the voice of the Elf in the darkness. "Have we stemmed the tide?"

"They'll dig through that lot eventually," sighed a Dwarf.

"My ears are ringing," whispered Lóni . "I can barely hear a thing!"

"You get used t' it," said Óin.

Frár shushed them both, peering into the near-blackness.

"Where are you? I'm somewhere over here, and I can't tell where I am," came the higher voice of Wee Thorin. The watchers heard the voice of the Prince swearing softly, and then the sounds of fumbling and staggering in the dark filtered through the sodden, clinging soil.

"We are safe for the moment," said the Stonehelm, and he cursed again as he slipped.

"What happened?" asked the Elf.

"Someone collapsed their tunnel," said the Stonehelm grimly.

"But now we cannot reach young Gimizh and whomever else waits in the tunnels," added Laerophen.

"It was a poor choice but it was the only one," growled the Stonehelm. "There aren't any nice choices, here."

"I did not say it was the wrong one," Laerophen said softly. "I understand, Prince Thorin."

"Wish I didn't," muttered the Stonehelm. "My father is making too much sense lately."

There was the _whsssk_ of a flint being struck, and then the Dwarf who had spoken earlier was illuminated in a sudden warm orange light.

"Everybody whole?" they said.

"I thought you were injured, Jeri!" said Wee Thorin in astonishment. "You're up!"

"Aye, well, you try having your head knocked about by an explosion or two, see how awake you are," retorted the Dwarf. Their light brown hair was braided from one temple, down over their cheekbone and beneath their nose, and up to the other temple in an elegant swooping curve, and their beard was dyed the vibrant green that proudly denoted that they were Zatakhuzdûn. This Dwarf stood outside the limitations of masculine and feminine, and lived their life as neither.

"Was that you who brought down the Orc-tunnel?" demanded the Prince.

"Thought it'd save some trouble," Jeri said, and they lit the lamp by their side. "They took me by surprise before: they're not likely to get the chance again!"

Frár folded his arms, impressed. "No wonder Dwalin made them part of his handpicked elite guard," he remarked.

  
  
Jeri child of Beri, by [aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/108284644977/jeri-child-of-beri-more-sansukh-art-whos)  


"Where are you, young one?" said Jeri, looking around and holding the lamp higher.

"Here, I'm here!" said Wee Thorin.

"Come close, henig," said Laerophen, and Wee Thorin glanced up at the filthy Elf, before staggering over to him and collapsing in the soft, churned dirt.

"Speak to me," said the Elf, kneeling down before the youth. "Are you well?"

Jeri looked back at the Prince, their eyes wary and incredulous. "What-" they began, but the Stonehelm shook his head sharply, bringing a finger to his lips and pointing towards the Elf and the young lad.

"I'm all right," said Wee Thorin bravely, but his lip was trembling a little. "I just…"

"You are a little shaken, no?" said the Elf, and Laerophen folded his legs beneath him. "I am also."

Wee Thorin blinked. "You? But you're all…"

Laerophen raised his eyebrows and waited.

"…you're calm," the Dwarfling finished weakly. "You're still."

"I appear so, do I not? I am an Elf, and it is our way," Laerophen said, and he held out his hands before him. They were utterly steady. "It is not a true reflection of my feelings, let me assure you."

The Stonehelm tilted his head, watching intently.

"I have not a warrior's spirit," Laerophen continued, and he stood. "My brothers have far more fight in them than I. Archery was ever a diversion, a game of skill to me, and not a necessity: I would stay in my rooms with my books, and my brothers would take up arms to guard against the spiders that crept ever closer to our home. I am a scholar, unsuited to war. And this close and crushing form of war, suffocating beneath the earth, is a terror to me."

Wee Thorin stared up at the face of the Elf, flickering in the faint lamplight, his mouth open as he absorbed that. Then he said, "I can help you."

Laerophen smiled his faint, inscrutable Elven smile. "I would like that."

"I'm going to find Gimizh," Wee Thorin said seriously. "He always gets into trouble, and I'm always the one pulling him out of it."

"Then you are the person needed here," Laerophen said, perfectly solemn.

The Stonehelm smiled briefly, before he turned back to Jeri. "What is the situation back at the tunnel-mouth?" he said, his voice returning to crispness.

Jeri straightened. "Sappers are workin' to get the tunnel-mouth wider, and there's an auxiliary tunnel bein' dug around this one, to meet up with Bofur's tunnel up past the collapsed section and past the threat of fighting. It'll be a tight squeeze, though: we'll be crawling through it on our bellies, and the Dale-Men will have an even worse time of it."

"How far did Thorin say they were?" hissed Óin.

"Perhaps one hundred strides to the east," said Loni.

"Damn," Frár muttered. "That's a lot of tunnel to dig in a short time – no chance for propping and shoring. This will be patch-work, and dangerous."

"None o' this is safe, lad," Óin said grimly. "Orcs are swarming over the Mountain and tryin' to make their way into Erebor, and my grand-nephew is lost beneath the earth somewhere. No, this ain't the safest thing they've ever done."

"Who has command?" the Stonehelm said.

"The Lady Genild has taken over," said Jeri.

  
[](http://nonbinaryschminary.tumblr.com/post/108030581086/ok-im-a-giant-nerd-and-so-drew-jeri-the-non-binary)  
Jeri child of Beri, by [nonbinaryschminary](http://nonbinaryschminary.tumblr.com/post/108030581086/ok-im-a-giant-nerd-and-so-drew-jeri-the-non-binary)  


The Prince nodded. "Good. We return to the tunnel mouth before the Orcs regroup."

Wee Thorin's head snapped up. "But…!"

"You must help me," said Laerophen. "I cannot see in this darkness, you must guide me."

Wee Thorin's face clearly showed his conflict, screwing up in distress. Then he sighed loudly. "Come on," he said, without much enthusiasm.

"Good lad," said the Stonehelm gently.

"This way," said Jeri. "And watch for these Orcs lying hereabouts! Some are not as dead or stunned as they seem."

"What now?" said Lóni.

"We stay with them," said Óin, his eyes hard with determination.

* * *

Bomfrís daughter of Alrís ran the last few steps up to the rookery at the peak of the mountain. Thorin would be disappointed in her for abandoning her post, but she could not stay longer.

Fumbling beneath the perch of her favourite raven, Tuäc, she found the little pewter box she had paid so much money for, and opened it with trembling fingers. Her limbs ached, and she was light-headed.

Inside the box was ginger-root, candied in honey. It glistened in the faint light as she lifted a piece to her mouth. She could taste sweetness like never before, but the texture made her gag and chewing was a chore.

Even the _smell_ made her feel ill.

Once she had swallowed, she sank back and waited for it to calm her unquiet stomach. Her hair felt horrible and stringy, her beard limp with sweat. Her arms were heavy from lifting her bow, but she could not falter. Just this short respite, just this once.

Oh, she was in _so_ much trouble.

Running her tongue over her teeth, she tasted the sharp iron-tang of blood. Why were her gums suddenly bleeding? So much of this was a bloody bewildering mystery. She groaned and fumbled for her flask. Once it would have held a fiery liquor to keep her warm upon the Raven-heights. Now it held only water.

Her stomach slowly ceased its lurching dance, and she let her head fall backwards and exhaled slowly, relaxing as much as she dared. Her eyes slid closed.

"You need to tell him," said Tuäc repressively.

"Later," she said, not opening her eyes. "There's a war on, he's sort of busy."

"He deserves to know, raven-girl," said Froäc, the old head-raven, her cracked voice stern. "He needs to know."

"Aye, but not now," she answered. Froäc huffed through her beak, and Tuäc ruffled her feathers in irritation.

"When is "not now"? When the egg hatches? Too late, too late," said Tuäc. "Tell him now, war or no!"

Bomfrís pressed her lips together, but she was saved from answering by the arrival of Värc, who flew into the rookery with a great commotion. The raven was bedraggled and his feathers were torn. His eyes rolled wildly. "Bomfrís, thank the shell," Värc panted. "News! News for the King!"

Bomfrís sat up straight immediately. "What have you seen?"

"Another army marches upon Dale!" The raven half-hopped, half-collapsed onto the Dwarrowdam's outstretched arm and pecked at her earlobe. "The enemy split their forces long before they even left Mount Gundabad – and Dale's defences are down, the Dale-Men are trapped beneath the earth! Dale is under attack!"

"No! 'Urrel!" Bomfrís' uneasy stomach churned. "Tuäc, to the King! I will follow with Värc," she said, terse and sharp, and ignored the loud tutting from Froäc's perch that followed her as she sped from the rookery as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Silly young chick," Froäc muttered, and clacked her beak.

* * *

Pippin pulled at the cuffs of the livery he wore, and ran his nails over the scratchy silvery thread that made up the embroidered White Tree upon his breast. "Velvet," he muttered, and shook his curly head. "I'll perish from the heat!"

"You look very fine, Master Pheriannath," said the young boy seated upon the barrel opposite him. He was dark-skinned and merry-eyed, and he kicked his legs constantly as he spoke.

"Do please stop calling me that," Pippin said, and pulled at his collar uncomfortably as he looked out over the ramparts. "I had quite enough of that from the city yesterday!"

"Ah, but today you look it," said the boy, and his fingers tapped the barrel in counterpoint to his kicking heels. "Ernil I Pheriannath, the Prince of the Halflings!"

Pippin pulled a face. "That's hardly accurate."

Beside him, Narvi squinted up at the great trebuchet platforms. "Not nearly enough," she said beneath her breath. "And why don't they use a pivot? I hope their calculations are correct: Bet they aim like a drunken archer."

"Shh," hissed Haban from Pippin's other side.

  


  
  


Haban, by [ Courtugger](http://courtugger.tumblr.com/post/114463191202/i-finally-got-around-to-drawing-haban-from-sansukh)

  


Narvi subsided, but anyone watching could have easily seen her mind working, the busy plans behind her eyes as she constructed towers and weapons and wonders in her imagination.

"The gloom is unbearable day after day," said Pippin glumly. "How have you managed? I would give much to see the sun again!"

"Got used to it," said the lad with a shrug. Then he laughed. "Well, sort of. I sometimes lose track of mealtimes: it can be tricky to know whether it is mid-morning or late afternoon!"

Pippin shuddered. "Well, I won't be losing track of what's important," he said firmly. "Though what is the good of food and drink under this creeping shadow? The very air seems thick and brown! Bergil, I am weary of this day already."

"And food is now doled out by order, anyway," the boy added, jumping down from his barrel and climbing up to where Pippin sat.

"Whyever did I look into that dratted stone?" Pippin sighed, and then looked out over the empty plain of Pelennor. "They're close, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Bergil. "And we haven't enough to defend ourselves. You saw them arrive, yes? Old Forlong the Fat, Dervorin and Hirliun, the men of Anfalas and Lamedon and Dol Amroth. Not enough. Want to go down to the gate and see them again?"

"No," Pippin said, and he stared moodily out over the plain some more. "I feel I should wait here."

"What does he wait for?" Haban whispered to her fellow Dwarrowdam. Narvi shrugged.

"I hate waiting," grumbled Bergil.

Pippin suddenly smiled. "I do too," he said. "I get strange impulses now and then – I can't stay put. The whole world calls to me, and even though a small voice in my head is telling me 'what a terrible idea, can't you see that is an awful idea?' I simply _have_ to investigate. My teachers used to despair of me ever focusing fully upon one thing."

"Me too!" said Bergil, delightedly. "Although _I_ tend to focus on the things I'm not meant to focus on…"

"There is a well in Moria that agrees with you," Pippin said, and laughed a little under his breath.

"I don't know what you meant by that, but adults are strange anyway," Bergil said after a moment. "What are we waiting for? We could be down at the gate, looking at the soldiers from Pinnath Gelin by now. They have green cloaks, just like our rangers!"

Pippin glanced back at the lad. "Adult!" he snorted. "As my people count it, I'm still a youth, you know."

"Why, but you have a grown face!" Bergil said, astonished. "How old are you, then?"

"Twenty nine. I shan't be of age until I'm thirty-three."

Haban's arm shot out and grasped Narvi's arm. "Twenty nine!"

"That's _obscene,"_ said Narvi, her face shocked.

"Twenty-nine!" said the lad, and whistled. "Why, you are quite old! As old as my uncle Iorlas. Still," he added hopefully, "I wager I could stand you on your head or lay you on your back."

"Maybe you could if I let you," said Pippin. "And maybe I could do the same to you: we know some wrestling tricks in my little country. Where, let me tell you, I am considered uncommonly large and strong, and I have never allowed anyone to stand me on my head. So if it came to a trial and nothing else would serve, I might have to kill you. For when you are older, you will learn that folk are not always what they seem; and though you may have taken me for a soft stranger-lad and easy prey, let me warn you: I am not, I am a halfling, hard, bold, and wicked!" Pippin pulled such a grim face that the boy stepped back a pace, but at once he returned with clenched fists and the light of battle in his eye.

"No!" Pippin laughed. 'Don't believe what strangers say of themselves either! I am not a fighter. And you make me feel quite elderly now. What would Merry say!"

"He's more a fighter than he knows," murmured Haban.

"He's growing into something else," Narvi agreed, studying the little Hobbit. "They all are."

Haban shot her fellow-watcher a look. "You've seen something similar."

"I've seen good, innocent, true-hearted people hardened by the world," Narvi said, and her eyes were dark and glittered strangely as she watched Pippin. "I've seen naivety punished and gentleness broken. It's not a new tale."

  
  
Narvi, by [christmashippo](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/107889367068/more-scribbles-because-i-just-have-enough-to-make)  


Pippin's fingers reached back up to pull at his collar some more. "But then, sometimes I feel like it has been years since I was young – and decades since I was a light-hearted Hobbit, little-touched by the perils I wandered through. Now I'm just a small soldier in a city preparing for a great assault, wearing the velvet of the Tower of Guard."

Bergil frowned. "Come on," he said. "We should go and pull faces at the White Tower guards: they can't tell you off for cheek, you know, they have to keep looking straight ahead."

"Their helmets look like half-plucked chickens," Pippin said, rather pertly, and Bergil snickered.

"Better than the Tower of Guard, with their pointy helms," he said. "My father said they look like-"

"Yes, I can imagine," Pippin interrupted hastily, and he gave the lad a look of censure. "Shame on you for repeating such scurrilous nonsense. My ma would have you over her knee, so she would, and my sisters would scrape up what was left of you."

"Sisters?" Bergil looked eager. "You have sisters? I only have a little brother, and he's useless still."

"I have three sisters, each more dreadful than the last," Pippin said, and idly he began to unravel the silver thread that made up the symbols on his tunic.

"Oh." Bergil blinked, and then threw his head back and huffed out a huge gust of air. "Can we _please_ go down to the gate?"

"I wish to wait for Faramir," said Pippin.

Bergil sat up very straight. "Faramir! Yes, we should wait for Faramir: he will be back soon, no doubt! Faramir is a mighty man, he can govern man and beast, he will make it yet."

"In how many pieces?" Pippin added sourly. "You weren't there, Bergil. You didn't see my new lord and master throwing his son away like... like an old shirt he hadn't a use for anymore."

"You don't think the Lord Faramir will hold the ford?"

"I don't think the Lord Faramir intends to keep his life much longer," Pippin said sadly. "He looked upon his father as though another unkind word might shatter him. Denethor might have lost Boromir, but he still has a son. Faramir has lost his only brother."

Haban frowned. She had liked the canny young ranger with the perceptive eyes and the gentle voice. "Now, that's not as things should be," she said to herself. "A parent should care for and protect, what's this Denethor think he's doing?"

"The smallfolk whisper," Bergil said, and wrinkled his nose at speaking of the Lord Denethor at all. "They say that the Lord has not been himself ever since Boromir went away."

"Then I imagine that the fellow he was before wasn't exactly a hayride in the summer sunshine either," said Pippin, and he tugged absently at the loose thread upon his tunic. "Faramir's face as he left was just awful. You've no idea. It was as though he had been through some great fear or anguish, and had passed through it to the quiet and the mastery that lies somewhere beyond terror and sadness."

"He's not much like his brother," said Bergil, and he kicked his heels against the walls.

"No," Pippin said, and he pulled sharply on his thread. "But they have both been my friend."

"What's that, then?" Bergil said, and he leaned out over the massive white walls. "Down there, those dark shapes."

"Perhaps it is Gandalf, coming back," Pippin said, but there was not much hope in his voice.

It turned out to be refugees from Cair Andros, fleeing the oncoming hordes. "They're coming," Pippin said, and looked up at the grey and boiling sky. It seemed to darken even as they watched.

"Faramir will be there, Faramir will stop them," Bergil said staunchly. "Here, what can you see?"

Small bands of weary and often wounded people came streaming into the city, staggering across the plains. Time passed, and Pippin had nearly worn the embroidered silver tree down to a skeleton of itself when a white shape finally came hurtling across the murky plain, faster than any living horse. "The White Rider!" cheered Pippin. "The White Rider!" Bergil took up the cry, and soon the city was calling out for Gandalf to come.

It was not long before Pippin was whisked away into Gandalf's orbit once more. The two Dwarrowdams watched as he trotted along at the Wizard's heels, into the many-pillared echoing throne-room of Gondor. "Denethor!" Gandalf called, "another army is come from the Black Gate, crossing from the North-East!"

Denethor looked up from where he sat at the foot of the high seat, glowering beneath his heavy brows. "Some have accused you, Mithrandir, of delighting to bring ill news. But to me this is no longer news: it was known to me ere nightfall yesterday."

Narvi scowled at him. "Then why in Mahal's name didn't you _do_ something about it?"

"The Rammas is breached far and wide," Gandalf continued as though the Man had not spoken. His eyes flashed. "The host of Morgul will enter in at many points. A sortie must be made ready! We must stand and fight!"

"Now would the coming of Rohan be timely indeed," said Denethor, his tone sardonic. "But they will not come. We are abandoned."

"No thanks to you," Pippin muttered beneath his breath. "Nearly scorched the hair off my toes!"

Gandalf's eye barely flickered, though it was obvious to the watchers that he had heard the Hobbit's impertinent words. "The dike is down, and they come pouring through the breaches at my heels. And now they have a new leader. For one has come that I feared."

"And have you finally met your match, Mithrandir?" Denethor sneered.

Gandalf's face grew cold. "Under the Lord of Barad-dûr the most fell of all his captains is now master of your outer walls," he said. "King of Angmar long ago, Sorcerer, Ringwraith, Lord of the Nazgûl, a spear of terror in the hand of Sauron."

"For myself, I have long known who is the chief captain of the hosts of the Dark Tower," said Denethor. "Is that all you have returned to say? Or can it be that you have withdrawn because you are overmatched?"

At that moment, a great commotion sounded without the palace doors, and Pippin immediately whirled and cried out, "they call for Faramir, can't you hear them?"

"Hush, Peregrin Took!" Gandalf said. "Open your ears and not your mouth!"

Pippin shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. "But can't you hear them?"

Gandalf paused, and his stern face grew fearful. Glancing back at Denethor, he then whirled upon his heel, his robes flying, and strode from the chamber.

Pippin looked up at his new-sworn master, and quailed before the sudden dreadful look of despair that filled Denethor's face.

"Go," Denethor said, half-rising from his chair. "Bring me my son; this duty I charge to you. If you truly are some wizard's creature, then use your art and save him! Go!"

Pippin swallowed and nodded, and then raced as fast as his legs could carry him out of the great and solemn hall after the swift and distant shape of Gandalf.

"Gandalf!" he called, and paused to gape in horror. From his high vantage point in the Court of the Fountain, he could see out across the Pelennor all the way to where the mountains of Mordor stood, glowering and sullen in the gloom. And creeping across the Pelennor came a darker wave that shifted and glittered with ranks upon ranks of foes, all headed towards the White City: a deadly, creeping sea.

"Oh Mahal below," Narvi whispered. "They never end!"

Haban could only stare in dumbfounded fear.

Pippin shook away the stupor of terror and sped on, through the court and down into the city. He ducked and wove between the people (who were rushing themselves, shouting in their panic) and hollered for Gandalf, Gandalf! But the Wizard had gone.

"Can't see!" Haban managed.

"Come here," Narvi said, and snagged Haban's arm and drew her near. "I've lost the Hobbit: can you see which way he went?"

"No idea," Haban sighed. "Too many tall folk."

Narvi pursed her lips speculatively. "Perhaps if I made a sort of elevated shoe…"

"Not _now,_ " Haban snapped. "Come, he'd be heading to the Gates."

The two Dwarrowdams pushed through the shrieking, scurrying mass of people. Soldiers marched through the throng, their armour gleaming in the scant light and parting the crowds like a knife. Every now and then came a distant, hollow _boom,_ like the footfall of a giant.

"Doors closing?" panted Haban as they charged for the gates.

"Believe me, I know doors, and that sound is _not_ a door closing," Narvi said grimly. "There's something huge out there: many somethings, no doubt."

Every now and then the circling levels of the city allowed them a glimpse of the plain as they descended – and with every level climbed lower, more and more Orcs spilled onto the field. Haban's face looked paper-white underneath her vibrant hair, and Narvi was hard-eyed and expressionless, tension thrumming just beneath her skin.

Finally the gates were before them, and there Gandalf waited upon Shadowfax at the head of a large cavalry clad in grey and with swans etched upon their helmets. The massive interlocking levers were clacking out of position, and then the huge gates swung open with a ponderous creak. "Not nearly good enough," Narvi groaned, and she scrubbed at her eyes as she caught her breath. "Look at those prehistoric things! Why, anyone could know where they were! What's the use of that?"

"Shhh," Haban hissed. "There's the Hobbit!"

For Pippin stood to one side, and his eyes were full of tears. "Gandalf!" he called again. "The Lord, he sends me to go with you! I must save Faramir!"

Shadowfax span, nimble as a mountain goat, and Gandalf suddenly ducked and lifted the Hobbit to sit before him upon the mighty horse's neck. "Hold fast," was all he said.

Pippin was bloodless with terror, but his hands clamped down upon the saddle and he nodded.

"Shadowfax, now," Gandalf said, and the Mearas neighed to shake the very citadel, before plunging into the cold darkness beyond. Pippin cried out wordlessly, and then they were gone, faster than thought. Behind them came the thunder of more hooves: the horsemen of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth followed the White Rider. beneath their swan-and-silver ship banner.

"Amroth for Gondor!" they cried as they rode. "Amroth for Faramir!"

Haban and Narvi stared out across the Pelennor. There, open to full view, vast and hideous beasts with foul-reeking wings were pecking and harrying at a slow-moving group of stragglers. The familiar grating scream stole their breath and filled the air with dread.

"Nazgûl," Narvi whispered.

Haban pressed her heels into the ground, and covered her face with her hands.

The White Rider lifted his staff and radiance too bright to look upon soared through the murk and the spume to drive away the horrors. The Nazgul shrieked and swept away, for their captain was not ready to face the white fire of their foe. The flying beasts broke and scattered like sparks in a gale.

Gandalf lowered his staff and led the retreat back into the fortress, the horsemen of Dol Amroth laying their swords upon those Orcs bold enough to scout ahead of the main force. They galloped onwards, and from the walls of the city a trumpet rang high and clear as they thundered through the gates.

"But where is Faramir?" Haban wondered.

Narvi gave her fellow watcher a worried look, and then her eyes flicked back to the returning riders.

Last of all he came. The handful of survivors of the rout of Osgiliath had preceded him, assisted by the horsemen, but Faramir had held their enemies at bay as they made their retreat, and had paid a heavy price for his valour. His armour was pierced with many black arrows, and he was carried in the arms of his kinsman, Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

"I found him upon the stricken field," said Imrahil as Shadowfax drew near. Pippin wept aloud when he saw the arrow-shafts sticking out from Faramir's chest and side, and his hands clamped over his mouth and pressed there until the knuckles showed up white. Gandalf bowed his head.

"Faramir, Faramir!" cried the people in the streets, and Bergil could be seen in tears. Pippin sobbed into his hands. Faramir's head lolled, and he did not answer.

It was at that moment that Denethor pushed through the crowd, his hair in disarray and his eyes huge and horror-struck. He stared at his son for a long, wordless moment, taking in the gaunt, ashen cheeks and the terrible wounds.

"They were outnumbered," said Imrahil coldly.

Denethor barely even looked up at his wife's brother. "Faramir…?" he said, his voice quavering. "My son?"

Faramir made no sound, apart from the steady dripping of his blood upon the ground.

"My arts may help…" Gandalf began, but Denethor's head snapped up and he stared wildly through the Wizard.

"You will not touch him," he snarled, his teeth snapping white. Then he span, staggering away, and waved a hand to the servants that had followed him. "You! Bring him to the White Tower!"

"Oh, now that's really put the Troll amongst the crystal," muttered Narvi.

* * *

"Yâdùshun, Zabad," said Gimli, his mouth quirking beneath his beard. He was lying upon his back and gazing up at the sky, watching the stars wink down upon him. A blanket woven of rough wool lay beneath him: no doubt a gift from the Rohirrim. Night still lay upon the land. 

Had it really only been a matter of hours since Bilbo had looked upon him with true recognition?

"Be silent, I am wroth with you," Thorin grunted, and he folded his arms and glared out over the valley beneath Dunharrow. All around, fires crackled and Men spoke in low whispers, glancing fearfully at the mountain behind them. The night clung to the skin and the sky seemed far blacker and huger than before, the stars smaller and colder. The nervous whickering of thousands of horses only added to the strange surreal feeling.

"As you will," Gimli said placidly.

Thorin glared into the night. He had slipped away from his solicitous family and crept away to Gimli, but now Gimli was no safe haven for the storm in his heart. Not if his star continued to act like some noble, arrogant, self-sacrificing, high-handed, pig-headed… Thorin broke off his thoughts and pinched his temples. "You are acting too much like _me,_ " he muttered.

Gimli half-shrugged those heavy shoulders. "Well, I've been called worse."

Thorin chewed upon his tongue for a moment, and then he growled, "talk to him."

"I thought we were not to speak?" Blast it, a smile was tugging at Gimli's lips. Insolent upstart.

"No, _you_ are not to speak," Thorin snapped. "I will do as I must to get sense into that thick skull of yours!"

"You sound like my sister," Gimli laughed. "There is something I never thought to say!"

"Would that she were here: she would soon have you and Legolas chained by the leg!" Thorin ran his hand through his hair, only then realising that he had left in Fíli's braids. "Ah, my star, why must you love in the fashion of our family? Why have none of us any damned _sense?"_

"And now you sound like Aunt Dís," Gimli said, and there was a slight pause. "Which is not so surprising, now I think on it more," he added, an apology in his voice.

"She would not stand idly by and watch either of us act the fool," Thorin sighed. "Gimli-"

A tall, pale blur came rushing through the darkness, and Thorin whirled to see the Elf approaching in a high state of excitement. "Aragorn is leaving! He has saddled Brego and moves towards the darkened path!" Legolas said. His bow was in his hand, the quiver upon his back. Gimli's head shot up.

"What, without us?" he cried. "Never, that is not to be borne. Come on, Elf, let's teach him otherwise!"

Legolas nodded quickly, his chest rising and falling. "Where do you suppose he goes?"

"Remember the Lady's words!" Gimli said, stuffing the Rohirrim blanket he had been lent into his pack and snagging his axes. "When the Grey Company arrives, he must seek the Paths of the Dead. What a name! Cheerful as a dirge!"

"The Dúnedain that arrived in the night," Legolas said upon an exhale of realisation.

"Must be the Grey Company, aye," Gimli grunted, shouldering his pack and slapping his helm upon his head. "Well, they're grey enough!"

Legolas raised his brows. "The sons of Elrond, grey?"

Gimli waved a hand. "Ach, not the Half-Elf brothers, no. That Halbarad fellow. Face like a tombstone. I doubt he has ever smiled in his whole life!"

Legolas' own mouth curved upwards. "He has had little cause. The Dúnedain have lived hard lives."

"They make those two lordly Elven lads seem lively as Hobbits, by comparison," Gimli said, and he glanced towards the King's tent, standing large and grand amongst the surrounding Riders. "You get that contrary torture-device you call a horse ready. I'll make our farewells, and meet you near the path-stone."

"I know you grow fond of Arod, Gimli," Legolas laughed. "I have seen you feed him slivers of apple when you thought yourself unwatched."

Abruptly, Thorin was thrown back to another surreal, moonless night. _Shhh, Myrtle. It's our little secret, yes?_

"Ach, memories are not of use here," he muttered to himself. _Bilbo, Bilbo_ , cried his heart, and he quashed it firmly.

Gimli assumed a lofty expression. "Don't know what you're talking about. Addled Elf. Go on, now!"

Legolas laughed again (though it sounded a trifle forced), and ran lightly away into the darkness.

"You feed the horse?" Thorin asked, his voice as even and mild as he could manage.

As Gimli jogged towards the tent he answered gruffly, "I don't like apples."

"Gimli, I have seen you fight your own father for the roast apples from Bombur's stall," Thorin pointed out.

Gimli ignored him, slowing as he neared the tent. The two Riders at either side of the entrance eyed him with undisguised curiosity.

"May I request audience with Théoden-king?" asked Gimli politely.

"He is within," said one of the Riders, while the other gawked at him unashamedly. "I do not know if they hold audience..."

Gimli bowed in his best fashion. "I would make our courtesies before we depart," he said, and the staring Rider blinked.

"Do you leave, Master Dwarf? And who is 'we'?"

"Aye, we leave – the Elf and I," Gimli replied. "We go where Aragorn goes."

"Who speaks without?" came the voice of the King from inside the tent.

"Gimli Glóin's son, Théoden-King," Gimli called. "Would you grant me a moment of your time?"

"And more, Master Dwarf," said Théoden, throwing open the tent-flaps. "For I owe you much for your axe at the Hornburg. Come in! But where is your customary companion?"

Gimli inclined his head to the guards and made his way into the tent. Following, Thorin took a moment to glance around. It was richly appointed, with banners emblazoned with running horses upon the walls and beautifully woven rugs covering the hastily-scraped ground. Upon a chair sat the Lady Éowyn, and she was pale and distressed. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she had been repressing angry tears.

Éomer stood in a corner, but he did not see his sister's unhappiness. His eyes were still full of gladness as they watched Théoden move and speak with vigour and purpose. His armour lay to one side, and he wore a soft woollen tunic and hose with his boots wrapped in leather thongs to keep out the mud. Ah, so he had been walking the camp then.

Then Thorin started, amazed, for there to the side stood Lord Elrond of Rivendell.

"What... why," he began, and then brought his amazement under control. "So here is where you went."

Then he narrowed his eyes at the Elf. "Your daughter needs you. Why are you here?"

"My lords and lady, Legolas prepares our horse and sends me to make our apologies and our farewells," Gimli said, and he bowed low once more. "I come to bid you goodbye, though surely not forever. I must thank you for your hospitality to a stranger upon a strange quest, in even stranger times. You have shown me kindness when suspicion was the rule of the land. The gratitude and the fast friendship of Gimli Glóinul and of the Dwarves of Erebor is yours, King of Rohan. I am forever at your service," he said, and knelt in the proper fashion to take before a King, hands pressed flat upon the earth.

Théoden seemed rather surprised by this show of courtly Dwarvish manners, his eyes wide and pleased. It was so easyto forget that Gimli was a noble sometimes. He was too genuine to play at such formal artifice in his day-to-day dealings, but apparently he knew all the proper responses and ceremonies. Thorin shook his head.

"My grandmother would be slightly less annoyed by your unkempt hair and beard, were she able to see this," he said, and then snorted softly. "No, she would still find them an affront to her sensibilities, what am I saying."

Gimli's eyebrow twitched, the only indication that he had heard.

"Rise, Master Dwarf," said Théoden warmly. "I thank you, and Edoras is a friend to you and yours from this day until the end of days. Beyond the shadows may we meet again!"

"Aye, may we meet again," Gimli said, and he stood once more and smiled. His eyes flickered to Éowyn, and a shadow crossed his eyes.

"Must you take that dark path?" Éomer said, scowling. "I had hoped that Aragorn and I might ride to war together, but if you seek that road then our parting is come and it is little likely that we shall ever meet again under the Sun."

"Say not so," said Gimli. "For I still have a lesson to teach you, O mighty Horse-lord!"

Éomer laughed. "I had nearly forgotten: is it as clear as the one you taught in the Deeping-coombe? For I will not soon forget the one who saved my life."

Gimli grinned at him. "I think you will find my arguments sharp and cutting."

Éomer held out his hand, and they clasped forearms. "Take care of Arod," he said. "May he bear you to good fortune!"

"Well, we can dream, laddie," said Gimli, still grinning. "Miracles have been known to happen."

Éowyn stood, her face wan. "Fare you well, Master Gimli," she said in a listless voice.

He softened. "And you, great Lady. Watch over our young Hobbit."

"What?" Thorin said, alarmed. "What, are you leaving Merry behind? Gimli, you ran across half of Middle-Earth to _find_ him!"

"Gimli son of Glóin," said Elrond suddenly, and Gimli turned to face the great Elven Lord. "Your axe cannot protect you from truth."

What could be seen of Gimli's cheeks above his fine beard blanched, and his lips tightened. "Pardon, my Lord?" he said, his tone strangled.

"Your axe cannot protect you from truth," Elrond repeated, and he stepped forward to gaze down with his piercing and powerful eyes at the Dwarf. "You have some strange power surrounding you, Master Dwarf, I cannot see it clearly."

Then the elf leaned forward in that swift, sinuous manner they had, his gaze fixed upon Gimli like a snake's. "But you see clearly, do you not?"

Gimli flinched.

"No," Thorin said, shocked to his core. This Elf could not see Gimli's Dark-name, could he?

Could he?

A star, as shining blue as the dreams of sapphires, winked for a moment upon Elrond's finger before it was gone. Then the Elf-Lord stepped back and inclined his head gracefully. "Navaer, fangon," he said. "Le maethor veleg a gornui, No dirweg, a av-'osto. N'i lû tôl."

"Mizùl," Gimli responded dumbly, and then he bowed once more and made his way from the tent with some speed. His face was still pale and pinched, and his eyes were bright with shock.

" _Elves_ ," Thorin growled, stomping behind Gimli, and then he had to stop and pinch the bridge of his nose and take a breath. "No, not Elves," he corrected himself between gritted teeth. "Just _that_ one."

"He has the gift of foresight, Aragorn says," Gimli muttered, and he roughly scrubbed at his face for a moment. "Ach, it is no matter..."

"Gimli, he nearly..."

"I _know_ he nearly said it!" Gimli hissed. "I have had more reminders of my kherumel in these past few days than I have had in years! If he could see it so clearly, I wonder that he didn't just pluck it from where it lies, floating uppermost in my mind!"

Thorin's jaws clamped shut.

Gimli squared his shoulders and began to jog towards the mouth of a shadowed path, passing between the sheer grey walls of the Dwimorberg. Thorin misliked the look of it greatly.

Legolas was standing near, Arod's reins in his hand. "Gimli," he began, and then he looked closer at the Dwarf's face. "Is all well?" he said, and a faint frown crossed his brow. "You are unhappy...?"

"I'm fine, Legolas," Gimli said, his voice tight and final. "Let's move."

"Where are you going?!" cried a voice, and a small body came hurtling through the night at a dead run, crashing into Gimli and resolving into Meriadoc Brandybuck. "Where are you going? You can't give up on it all!"

"Peace, little Hobbit!" Gimli said, and he took Merry's shoulders. "We do not give in to the darkness."

"Then why are you going?" Merry's lip was quivering, and he looked up at Legolas with entreaty in his eyes. "Please don't go!" _As well,_ the unspoken words could be heard by all.

"We follow Aragorn," Legolas said gently, and he laid a hand upon Merry's curly head. "Fate has laid a path for him that is darker than most. Only Frodo walks a blacker road. We hold to our bonds of Fellowship, Merry. We will meet again, brave little friend."

Merry could only stare up at them, his face crumpling.

"Here, now!" Gimli said, breaking the moment. "Hold onto this, will you?" And he passed over one of his throwing axes, small enough to fit into his boot or a Hobbit's belt. "I doubt this mountain holds anything worth aiming at, and so it should stay with you. I'll be wanting it back, mind! It belonged to my cousin."

Merry took it with trembling hands, and then slowly tucked it into his belt and pulled down the surcoat of Rohan that he wore over the handle. "Sometimes I think you have as many cousins as I do, Gimli," he said in a faltering voice. Then he lunged forward and wrapped the Dwarf in a hug.

"Here, now," Gimli said softly. "Here now, lad."

Merry sniffled, and then he launched at Legolas and pressed his head against the Elf's stomach. "Don't you dare die, hear? And don't drive Aragorn potty with your bickering. And stay away from those Black Riders. And... oh, whatever shall I do alone! All my friends are gone!"

"Not all," Legolas said, and he knelt before Merry and took his hand. "Stay by the King: you have made a fast friend there. And the Lady Éowyn is a great and valiant lady."

"They didn't come out of Rivendell with me," Merry muttered, wiping at his eyes. "They never walked through Moria or Lothlórien."

"Chin up, laddie, we'll be seeing you once more," said Gimli.

"I hope so," Merry said underneath his breath, and he let out a gusty sigh. "All right, go watch him. He'll brood himself into fits if you don't. Get him to eat more, it's frightful how little he eats. And you two: sort yourselves out! I've known tweens better organised than you!"

Gimli cleared his throat. "Yes, uh."

Legolas' eyes flickered to the side, uncomfortable.

  
  
Gimli & Legolas, by [punsbulletsandpointythings](http://punsbulletsandpointythings.tumblr.com/post/107823706671/those-two-losers-who-serious-need-to-just-fucking)  


"Even the Hobbit sees it!" Thorin threw his hands into the air. "Gimli, my star, you cannot understand how precious this time is! Do not waste it!"

"Oh, I will bawl in a moment, see if I won't!" Merry muttered, and he rubbed at his nose. "Go on, the pair of you! And STAY SAFE!"

"And you, little warrior," said Legolas. "Fare you well, Merry!" And he turned and led Arod away towards the black path.

Gimli glanced behind them at the forlorn little figure left alone amidst the tall striding Men. "Somehow I don't think he's likely to stay away from trouble," he rumbled.

"He is a Hobbit," Thorin grunted. "Not even Nori would make that wager."

"Aha!" said Legolas triumphantly. "There he is. He is leading Brego away from the camp: do you see him?"

Gimli peered into the darkness and made a rough sound of acknowledgement. Thorin's heart sank. Though they appeared to be as friendly as ever they were, he could not help but notice that neither Gimli nor Legolas met the other's eyes.

"My star, you do not do anyone a kindness by refusing the call of your One," he said, watching them. He could feel the glower settle over his face, and clenched his fists at his sides. "You do not understand what you do. You refuse him his choice, you doom him to yearn without resolution. You do not save him with your denial: you but prolong the pain of two hearts! _You_ are the one hurting him, can you not see it?"

_Can you not see it, as I could not?_

"And just where do you think you are off to?" Gimli said as Aragorn came by them, swathed in his cloak.

"Not this time," Aragorn said, his face drawn and stern. "This time you must stay, Gimli."

"Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?" said Legolas, drawing near with Arod.

"Might as well accept it," Gimli said, grinning. "We're going with you, laddie."

Aragorn looked ready to protest for a moment, and then he relaxed and smiled faintly. "Good."

Gimli clapped his great thick hands together. "So where's this Grey Company of yours, then?"

Aragorn's eyes flickered to Legolas, and then to the nearby entry to the Dimholt path.

Thorin stared. The path was lined with tall cliffs, grey and forbidding, and a strange sickly mist swirled through it. He squinted, and the whole world seemed to draw in a nervous breath. There… there was something _in the mist,_ a figure, barely discernible…

"What's all that about?" wondered Frerin beside him. Thorin nearly shouted aloud in surprise.

"Don't _do_ that!" he gasped, holding a hand to his belly and trying to calm his racing heart.

"Sorry," said Frerin cheerfully, and he grinned unapologetically at Thorin. "Ha. You were frightened."

"Lies," Thorin grunted, and surreptitiously mopped his brow.

"Serves you right for sneaking off." Frerin snickered for a moment, and then he looked around. "So what's all this? And why did you sneak away instead of waiting for me?"

"That is…" Thorin let out a slow exhale of air as he weighed his answer. "Both questions do not have easy answers."

"So let's have them one at a time, then," Frerin said, and they watched as the Three Hunters mounted their horses and began to ride towards the small gathered company at the entrance to the shadowed path.

"They seek the Paths of the Dead, wherever they lie," Thorin said as they trailed along behind the horses. "From the way these Rohirrim eye the path, I guess this is where they begin, or near enough."

"How jolly," Frerin commented, and he made a face at the Grey Company. "And that lot?"

"Gimli calls them the Grey Company," Thorin said, and shrugged. "I know no more than this, except that there is some rhyme that speaks of them. Aragorn's destiny has a loud voice."

"Rhymes and riddles," Frerin mused.

"I _hate_ riddles," Thorin muttered.

"Can't say I've ever noticed," Frerin said dryly. "And why'd you sneak away?"

Thorin's mouth snapped shut, and he stared ahead as though his gaze could drill through the cursed mountain.

"Ahhhhh, we'll come back to that, then," Frerin said, and swallowed as he turned back to the Three Hunters, watching them make their way towards the path's beginning.

"Lad, what's that at your hip there?" Gimli asked suddenly, and Aragorn glanced down at the blade that lay along his thigh. "Not your usual sword. Did Théoden make you a gift?"

"No," Aragorn answered, and he laid a strangely reverent hand upon the tall pommel. "This is no sword of Rohan. You have a good eye for weaponswork, my friend."

"Ahem? _Dwarf_ ," Gimli said pointedly. "That's no ordinary pig-sticker. That's Dwarf-steel."

Aragorn nodded. "This is Andúril."

"Never heard of it."

"Yes you have," Aragorn said and smiled as they drew up to the path's entrance. Behind them, the Men of Rohan muttered uneasily, watching them go with fearful eyes. "It has not seen much use for quite some time, but the Elves have reforged it with their arts. It seems fitting that it bear another name."

Gimli's eyes widened. "Narsil?"

"But Narsil was the sword of Elendil," Legolas said, confusion passing over his face.

"Aye, and Narsil was forged by a Dwarf," Gimli said, eyeing the sword with new respect. "Telchar of Nogrod was its maker, he who made the knife Angrist. In that one blade the art of Dwarves and Elves and Men comes together. Bear it well!"

"Nogrod!" Legolas exclaimed.

Gimli snorted. "Aye, Firebeards can make more than mischief, you know."

Legolas made a 'tchh!' sound and reached back to pinch at Gimli's leg. "I do not disparage and you know it," he said. "I was surprised, that is all."

"Why am I allowing you two to come again?" Aragorn asked the air. "Please remind me."

"Because you'd miss us," Legolas laughed a little too loudly, and his eyes skittered away from Aragorn.

"And because your back needs watching, lad," Gimli added. "What would you do without us, eh?"

"No doubt I would hear myself think now and then," Aragorn murmured. "Halbarad, are we ready?"

Waiting at the path-mouth was a small group of ragged Men in grey cloaks, led by a tall warrior with a grim, weary face. His greying hair was scraped back, and his nose had been broken at some point, and all in all he was sinewy and thin, wiry in the way of strong tree-roots. Yet he was lordly, for all that he was worn like a weathered rock. "Ready," he confirmed, his voice low and quiet. He handed Aragorn a long thin staff furled in some dark cloth, and then gave the Elf and Dwarf a questioning look.

"My companions," Aragorn introduced them. "Halbarad, this is Gimli son of Glóin, and Legolas Thranduillion. Gimli, Legolas, this is Halbarad of the Dúnedain, and my kin."

"At your service," Gimli said, and Legolas inclined his head.

"Thranduil's son, an Ellon of the Greenwood, riding with a Dwarf?" came another voice, and a dark-haired rider drew closer and raised his arched eyebrows at Legolas. "Strange days."

Legolas stiffened.

Thorin peered upwards, and then shook his head roughly to clear it. He was seeing double.

"Twins?" Frerin whispered.

"Elladan, Elrohir," Aragorn said, and held up his hand to halt them. The pair of slender Elf-lords, sharp-eyed and proud, turned back in unison.

"Estel," said one, and Mahal help him, Thorin could not tell them apart at all. He had never seen two people so uncannily alike in appearance. "Just greeting our distant cousin."

"I am kin to Celeborn alone, the relation is so distant as to be nigh non-existent," Legolas said, drawing himself up in his most haughty manner. Thorin frowned.

"I don't understand," Frerin said, looking between them. "Aren't they all Elves?"

"It seems to be more complicated than that," Thorin said, and he frowned as he looked between the tall and fierce-eyed sons of Elrond, and the Wood-Elf. The twins had a stillness that Legolas did not possess: a composure that reminded Thorin of their father and, strangely, of Thranduil. Anger, long since grown comfortable, burned steadily and patiently in their eyes. Their hair was dark and their movements were deliberate, slow and controlled. Legolas, in comparison, was a faster flame, darting and quick and flickering. "The Elves of Lothlórien are not like the Elves of Rivendell, and it appears that those of Mirkwood are not like either."

Gimli suddenly cleared his throat. "Now then, the Dwarf has a voice and isn't shy of using it, so perhaps we could all stop talkin' over his head? Name's Gimli. Now, which one are you?" He squinted at the nearest of the brothers, who looked rather taken aback.

"Elrohir," he said, too nonplussed to dissemble.

"Well met, Elrohir. Might have met you back in Rivendell, but then again, might have been your brother. Durin's beard and boots, might have been your sister for all I could tell, back in those days!" Gimli pushed back his helm with his thumb in his customary manner and grinned at the assembled group, seemingly pleased at putting such confused expressions upon such grim faces. "You'll find I'm a little less stiff-necked now."

At these words, Legolas seemed to unwind all at once, though not a single muscle twitched. His lips curved upwards infinitesimally. "Not noticeably."

"Hush, you," said Gimli equably. "Aragorn, why did the Lady desire us to take this unwholesome path?"

"Our father brought word to our foster-brother," spoke Elladan (at least, Thorin _thought_ it was Elladan): "Bid Aragorn remember the words of the seer, and the Paths of the Dead."

"And what may be the words of the seer?" said Legolas. He was noticeably more relaxed since Gimli had spoken, and though he still would not look back at Gimli, there was an ease in his face that had not been there before.

"Thus spoke Malbeth the Seer, in the days of the last King at Fornost," said Aragorn:

"Over the land there lies a long shadow,  
westward reaching wings of darkness.  
The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings  
doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
for the hour is come for the oathbreakers:  
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again  
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.  
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them  
from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?  
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:  
he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead."

"Dark ways, doubtless," Gimli grunted. "But no darker than these staves are to me."

"If you would understand them better, then follow me," said Aragorn, "for that way I now shall take. But I do not go gladly; only need drives me. Therefore, only of your free will would I have you come, for you will find both toil and great fear, and maybe worse."

"I do not fear the dead," Legolas said.

"Where Legolas goes, I go." Gimli's chin rose, as though in challenge. "I hope that the forgotten people will not have forgotten how to fight," he said, "for otherwise I see not why we should trouble them."

Elrohir's eyes widened as he looked between Gimli and Legolas with suspicion and amazement. "How…?"

"Do not ask," Aragorn sighed.

Thorin glanced back at the camp of the Rohirrim. The Riders were whispering amongst themselves and eyeing the Grey Company and the cursed mountain with fearful eyes. "Elvish wights," he heard them murmur. "Let them go into the dark places where they belong, and never return!"

Frerin's hand suddenly shot out and gripped Thorin's wrist. For there amongst the whispering Riders stood Éowyn alone, her eyes fixed upon them. There was such resentment and hurt in her eyes, though she held herself tall and proud as ever.

Aragorn's jaw rippled with tension though he did not turn to her, and he wheeled Brego with a soft word and a nudge onto the Mountain path. Slowly, silently, they followed.

Éowyn's eyes were a storm, and her breath came fast into her chest as she watched them go. Then she whirled away, her hair spinning behind her, and disappeared into the crowd of fearful Riders.

Frerin slumped, and then buried his face in the back of Thorin's shoulder. "Nnngh," he said.

"There, now," Thorin said, and he patted his brother's golden head comfortingly. "You'll see her again soon, doubtless."

"Mmmph," Frerin agreed, muffled by Thorin's tunic.

They were able to keep pace with the Company without issue, for the horses were skittish upon the path and needed urging and comforting. Legolas dismounted at one point, and spoke softly into Arod's ear, stroking his head.

Gimli peered up at the tall, forbidding shape of the Dwimorberg as it loomed ever nearer. "I do not like it here," he muttered.

"I thought you would be happier," Legolas said, and he did not look up.

"Aye," said Gimli, "well, it appears that not every Mountain is to this Dwarf's taste. My very blood runs chill. Do none of these fellows speak? They are even more close-mouthed than Aragorn!"

"The air seems to steal the words before they are even spoken," Legolas said, his voice hushed as he stroked Arod's nose. "Can you not feel it? It is like the long indrawn breath before a scream."

"Very poetic," Gimli muttered, and he glanced up at the black shape of the Dwimorberg again. "What kind of an army would linger in such a place?"

Legolas kept his eyes trained upon Arod as he answered, "One that is cursed. Long ago the Men of the Mountain swore an oath to the last King of Gondor, to come to his aid, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled. And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest until they had fulfilled their oath."

"Isildur didn't mess about, then," Gimli said underneath his breath. "The stones themselves feel sickened, eaten away by nameless things. There are caves here, but I do not care to see them."

"We may not see a choice," Legolas said, taking up Arod's bridle.

"There is always a choice," Gimli said, and he fell silent as he watched the back of the Elf's head for a moment.

"You surely do not fear the dead," Legolas said after a brief pause. "Your kin mean you no harm. Of us all, your dead hold no horrors."

"I do not fear the dead, no," Gimli said, his voice deepening as he watched Legolas' hand tighten upon the bridle. "I fear…"

Legolas' head turned back towards him a little. "Mellon nin?"

But Gimli would not answer more, and his mouth was tight and flat and unhappy. His massive hands wrapped around the handle of his axe as he moved with Arod's gait.

"You have become a far better rider, Gimli," Thorin said, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Aye, well, it was that or fall off," Gimli grunted.

Legolas actually turned back to Gimli, eyebrows raised. Gimli nodded, rolling his eyes. "Yes, they are here again," was all he said, and Legolas nodded back.

"Perhaps your kin will frighten away those who dwell in the Mountain."

"Now then, let's not be cruel," Gimli said, though his smile was feeble compared to his earlier wide grin.

Legolas bent his head to hide his own smile. There was an obscure pain in his strange Elven eyes as they moved through the shadowed ravines and twisted trees of the Dimholt, drawing ever closer to the mountain all the while.

Thorin clenched his teeth until they ached. "Gimli, speak to him," he grated. "Must I bend the laws of the living world to speak to him myself?"

Gimli ignored him, watching his own hands as they rested upon his axe, fingernails picking at the heavy ornamentation.

"I don't like this place much," Frerin said, shrinking back from where the deadened, grey trees stretched out to him with their naked twigs, like skeletal fingers.

"Stay close," Thorin said to him, and pulled him near as the Grey Company halted at the base of a sheer escarpment. A door was set into it, and the stones gave off a sense of coldness and ancient malice that even the watchers could feel. Signs and figures were carved above its wide arch, and fear flowed from it like a grey vapour.

"The way is shut," read Elladan softly. "It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it."

Aragorn dismounted, and all the Dúnedain did likewise. Gimli landed with the customary dull _thud_ of his iron-shod boots, and drew near to Legolas. The whites could be seen around the warm brown of his eyes, and he gazed upon the doorway with dread. "Irrîn," he breathed, and his hands clenched and unclenched around the handle of his axe.

"I do not fear death," Aragorn muttered to himself, although to Thorin it seemed that he was declaring so in order to give himself heart before this terrible doorway. The once-ranger squared his shoulders, steeling himself, and plunged through the arch. The darkness beyond swallowed him instantly.

"Brrrr," Frerin managed, and clutched at Thorin's arm.

"Strong heart, nadad," Thorin murmured.

"He just disappeared," Frerin whispered back. "Like the darkness ate him."

One by one, the assembled followed Aragorn into the yawning cave, and their horses followed them willingly for love of their riders. Legolas glanced down at Gimli, and then closed his eyes.

"There is only one death I fear," he said aloud, and then he opened his eyes and gave the door a stare full of such rage and sorrow that Thorin could not look at his face for long. He turned away.

There was the clink of Arod's hooves, and then the soft liquid syllables of Elvish. "Legolas!" Gimli blurted, and the sounds faded, and then stopped altogether.

[[Arod's chant](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/107380603683/this-is-the-eleventh-piece-of-the-songs-of), composed and sung by [notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/)]

Thorin looked up. Gimli was alone: all the Company had passed within. His star shook as though an earthquake possessed him, and his face was torn in anger and fear. "Here is a thing unheard of!" he said, and shifted his weight between his feet, "An Elf will go underground where a Dwarf dare not!"

"I am here, Gimli," Thorin said. "I am with you. Whatever you must face, we face it together."

"Ach, I'd never hear the end of it," Gimli said, and he plunged into the darkness.

* * *

_TBC._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Bizarûnh - Men of Dale  
> gamil bâhûn - Old friend  
> 'Urrel – horror of all horrors  
> Zatakhuzdûn – literally, "Whole Dwarf, one/embodies this" – i.e. nonbinary, gender-neutral.  
> Mizùl – Good luck!  
> Kherumel – name of all names  
> Gimlîn-zâram – star-pool  
> Barufûnuh, ai, ayamuhud zu – my family, ah, blessings upon you  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Undayûy – greatest boys  
> Izukh - stop  
> Âkminrûk zu – thank you  
> Yâdùshun, Zabad – Welcome, Lord  
> Irrîn – Horror-place  
> Nadad - brother
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Henig – child  
> Navaer – farewell!  
> Fangon – bearded one (Dwarf)  
> Le maethor veleg a gornui - You are a mighty and brave warrior  
> No dirweg! – Be watchful  
> Av-'osto – do not fear  
> N'i lû tôl - Literal: When the time will come  
> Ellon – male Elf  
> Ernil I Pheriannath – "Prince of the Halflings". The people of Minas Tirith used Sindarin to call Pippin this, a relic of their ancient friendship with Elves.  
> Estel – "Hope". This was Aragorn's child-name, before he took his true name.
> 
> ...
> 
> Narsil – forged by Telchar of Nogrod, a famous Dwarven smith of the First Age, remade by Elven smiths, and wielded by Men, Narsil has a long history. It had magical powers similar to Angrist, in that it could cut through anything. It is possible that Narsil was originally the sword of Maglor, son of Fëanor.
> 
> Forlong - also known as Forlong the Fat and Forlong the Old, was a Man of Gondor from the province of Lossarnach, south of theWhite Mountains. They sent two hundred men to defend Minas Tirith.
> 
> Dervorin – A man of Gondor, he was the son of the Lord of Ringlo Vale. They sent 300 men to defend Minas Tirith.
> 
> Hirliun the Fair – a Man of Gondor, of the Green Hills from Pinnath Gelin. They sent 300 men to defend Minas Tirith. They were customarily clad in green.
> 
> Anfalas – a distant province of Gondor. They sent a "long line of many sorts, hunters and herdsmen and men of little villages, lscantily equipped save for the household of Golasgil their Lord." (from _The Return of the King,_ "Minas Tirith".)
> 
> Lamedon – a hill-province of Gondor. They sent "a few grim hillmen."
> 
> Imrahil of Dol Amroth – the Swan-Prince, Lord of the largest and most powerful province of Gondor. Imrahil was the brother of Finduilias, the deceased wife of Denethor, and thus he was the uncle of Boromir and Faramir. He brought seven hundred men at arms, and a company of knights.
> 
> Dagor Dagorath – the End of Days, the Götterdämmerung of Middle Earth, when Morgoth will break his bonds and lay waste to creation. From the ruins will come a new world. Dwarves believe they will be the ones to help build it.
> 
> Irmo – The Vala of dreams. Irmo lives in Lórien on the continent of Valinor, of which Lothlórien is but a shadow and a reflection. He is the brother of Mandos, the doomsman of the Valar.
> 
> Olórë Mallë – the path of dreams. Mortals only visit the Undying Lands in their dreams, along this path, to end up in the gardens of Lórien.  
> ...
> 
> Some dialogue and description taken from the films and from the chapters, "Minas Tirith", "The Siege of Gondor", "The Muster of Rohan", and "The Passing of the Grey Company."
> 
> AND NOW: A COMIC (by [scaggles](http://scaggles.tumblr.com/post/106833279599/that-one-fanfic-about-your-otp)! Click [here](http://scaggles.tumblr.com/post/106833279599/that-one-fanfic-about-your-otp) for the rest!)
> 
> **That ONE fanfic about your OTP**
> 
>   
>  [](http://scaggles.tumblr.com/post/106833279599/that-one-fanfic-about-your-otp)   
>    
> 
> 
> _teehee 'i made him a pen' claims another victim)_


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE! I liiiiive! Thank you to every single one of you for your kudos and comments. Your support for this fic and for me is astounding and amazing, and so are you. 
> 
> **Art and artiness** (remember to check the ever-expanding and awesome [Mighty Sansukh Masterpost](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost) for everything! IT IS AWE-INSPIRING, just all that DEDICATION HARD WORK AND TALENT AAAHHH)
> 
> ART  
> Aviva0017: [Frerin (and Frerin's death ouch)](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/107555555248/frerin-son-of-thrain-tonights-first-doodling)  
> Aviva0017: [Alris daughter of Geris](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/106916790288/alris-daughter-of-geris-another-lovely-dwarrowdam)  
> Aviva0017: [Orla](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/104209125013/a-landscape-made-by-time-sketch-colored-and)  
> Taciturntentacles: [But I made you a pen... ](http://taciturntentacles.tumblr.com/post/106990413596/but-i-made-you-a-pen)  
> Taciturntentacles: [Fris and Gimli](http://taciturntentacles.tumblr.com/post/106887019866/ive-wanted-to-draw-fris-for-ages-and-gimli-is-a)  
> Taciturntentacles: [Wee Thorin & Gimizh, Laerophen & Gimizh](http://taciturntentacles.tumblr.com/post/106482654541/lets-play-who-keeps-needing-to-draw-sansukh)  
> scaggles: [That one fanfic about your OTP (COMIC)](http://scaggles.tumblr.com/post/106833279599/that-one-fanfic-about-your-otp) bwaaahahahaha I am so mean  
> hhavenh: [Loni and Frar, teasing](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/106752164290/i-started-the-year-with-loni-and-frar-and-im)
> 
> SONGS  
> notanightlight: [Legolas' song to Arod (Chapter 32)](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/107380603683/this-is-the-eleventh-piece-of-the-songs-of)
> 
> PLAYLISTS  
> cybermanolo: [At the sign of the Prancing Pony](http://cybermanolo.tumblr.com/post/103485972971/check-out-this-playlist-on-8tracks-at-the-sign)
> 
> FICTION  
> Ladykes: [An Even Greater Sunrise](http://squintkes.tumblr.com/post/104637959331/an-even-greater-sunrise) (Eowyn/Frerin)  
> Redring91: [Onomatophobia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2908619)  
> Oakwyrm: [How to Thank Thorin Oakenshield](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104231)  
> FoxDragon: [Punctuality](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2427305/chapters/5371724)
> 
> Thank you all! You are incredimazing and make me flap my hands uselessly and make seal-noises galore. I love you and your work.
> 
> RIGHT. ONWARDS.

[](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/post/107973475509/in-the-dark-i-hear-a-call-calling-me-there-i-will)  
Movie Poster, by [evil-bones-mccoy](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/)

...

"This is no journey for you," said Théoden, kindly to be sure, but firmly. "You are of great heart, Master Merry, but small stature. We go to a hopeless battle, and seeing to your protection would turn my mind and sword from the business of bloodshed. No, you must stay and help my niece protect Edoras."

"Why?" Merry cried, and his jaw was outthrust pugnaciously. Ori had seen that look upon a Hobbit's face before, and he instinctively took a step backward. "Why did you accept my sword and my service if you had no intent to use them? And I would not have it said of me in song that I was always left behind!"

"I received you for your own safe-keeping, Master Holbytla," said the King, and he knelt before the irate Hobbit and let out a regretful sigh, before placing his hand upon Merry's shoulder and squeezing. "If the battle were before my gates, then perhaps your deeds would be yet sung by minstrels; but Gondor is too far for the legs of a pony, even one as sturdy as Stybba."

Merry glared, his eyes shiny and huge.

Ori gnawed on his scarf. "Hobbity big eyes," he mumbled.

"Shândabi," agreed Bifur, and he gently tugged the scarf from between Ori's teeth. "You'll unravel the wool that way."

Théoden bent his head. "I am sorry, my little friend."

Merry bowed stiffly. "My lord," he said, and his normally bright voice was tight. He then scurried out of sight so quickly that Ori and Bifur nearly lost sight of him altogether. Hobbits could move far faster and more quietly than any of these stomping, clattering Riders.

"He's not altogether wrong," Ori puffed, wrinkling his nose as they ducked and weaved through the striding Men and the long legs of horses. "Hobbits aren't exactly warriors…"

"Neither are we," Bifur reminded him.

"S'pose that's true. Ah, there he is!" Ori straightened, catching sight of Merry, and then pulled at his mittens as his shoulders immediately fell. "Oh, poor thing."

For Merry was watching the bustling flow of folk with unhappy eyes, staring at the gathering lines of horsemen and the folding tents as the Riders prepared for the departure. Misery was written into every line of his body. "All alone now," he mumbled, and then drew his little dagger-sword and peered up at the straight and shining edge. "Not any use except as baggage, I suppose."

"You should not draw your blade unless you propose to use it," said a quiet voice, and Merry yelped and whipped around, his sword held low as Boromir had so painstakingly taught him.

"Peace, little warrior!" laughed a quiet-voiced Rider; a tall figure swathed in leathers and a green cloak. "Put down your weapon: I mean no harm. You wish to follow the Lord of the Mark, do you not? I see it in your face."

Merry swallowed. "I just… I want to fight," he said simply. "Yes, I want to go, though I haven't any earthly idea what use I'll be."

"Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say," said the Rider. "I will carry you before me, and cover you in my cloak. Such good will should not be denied."

Merry's mouth dropped open. "Oh!" he said, and then checked his expression. "I thank you, sir! Though I do not know your name."

"Do you not?" said the Rider softly. "Then call me Dernhelm."

Merry clapped his horse-helm on his head and extended his arm to the Rider, who took it and swung the Hobbit up onto the saddle. "Then, Dernhelm, I am in your debt."

"For such bravery done for the love of Théoden-King, I hold any debt answered," said Dernhelm, and wheeled the great grey horse beneath them to join in the muster.

"Uh-oh," said Ori.

"Shândabi," said Bifur.

"You recognised her, then?" said Ori, craning back to look at Bifur.

"Sort of amazed that Merry _didn't,_ to be frank," Bifur said.

"Oooooooh, Frerin isn't going to be happy about this," said Ori, and he buried his face in Bifur's shoulder. "Neither is Thorin. Neither is _anybody._ Hobbits don't exactly have the best luck on battlefields."

Bifur fiddled with a braid of Ori's hair as he thought, and then let out a groan of agreement. "Shândabi," he said, and winced in remembrance.

They watched Merry and Eowyn disappear into the sea of horses, and sagged in unison.

"Nobody knows they're tagging along, do they?" said Ori, though his voice didn't hold much hope for a positive answer. "Anybody at all?"

"Doubt it," Bifur said.

"Well, _bugger_ ," Ori said.

"Shândabi," said Bifur, with feeling.

* * *

The dread lay heavy in the air: thick and cloying like smoke. Thorin pushed through the darkness and drew his brother close. Fear rasped into his lungs along with his breath, and his feet staggered on the path as he followed after his star.

Endless whispers floated in the still, stifling darkness, the words unclear and just out of hearing. Thorin's ears pricked at each half-heard syllable and liquid hiss, even as his skin crawled. Frerin's hand clutched tightly to his, his hitching breath sounding loud in their ears. The blackness that enveloped them was even darker than that of Moria.

Thorin felt almost as though he were walking through the solid earth again.

Only the impact of heavy, unsure footfalls ahead reassured Thorin that Gimli indeed led the way, following in the steps of the Grey Company.

Abruptly there was the sputtering hiss of a torch, and Aragorn's face was cast into sharp and flickering relief as he bore aloft a thin brand. "Stay close," he said low. "We do not know what we shall find." He passed the torch to Elladan, and lit one for himself and raised it high.

They had arrived in a cavern of cold grey rock, and the walls had dropped away so that they appeared to float all unsupported beneath the earth.

"The stone feels sick," Frerin whispered. "And so do I."

"Aye," Thorin murmured in response. "The dead have dwelt here, unsleeping, for an Age. The stone itself must yearn for rest."

Something glittered in the gloom to the left, and Aragorn swapped the torch to his left hand and drew Andúril as he moved forward to see.

Gimli's mouth tightened as he swallowed, and his axe was ready in his hands. What could be seen of his face had been thrown into stark black shadow, and his pupils were nearly black with terror. "Does he feel no fear?" he said, his voice strangled and hoarse. "In any other cave Gimli Glóin's son would have been the first to run to the gleam of gold. But not here! Let it lie!"

"Steady," Frerin whispered, and his little hand clamped down upon Thorin's.

Thorin braced himself for the expected surge of guilt at the mere mention of gold, but his fear had frozen all guilt from him in this dreadful place. "As though I could summon my madness in this icy tomb," he muttered.

Strange disturbing shapes flickered in the light of Aragorn's torch, and they resolved as the Man drew closer. It was a skeleton, and it lay before a great closed door, the fingerbones still reaching towards it in twisted supplication, clawing at the cracks. Aragorn knelt down to peer at the golden sigils upon the dusty helm, and then he shook his head and stood. "Here is the door that he could not pass," he said, almost to himself, before raising his voice and calling to the cavern at large. "But we do not attempt it. Keep your secrets, and your hoard, hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! Oathbreakers! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

There was no answer, and then a gust of wind eddied through the tunnels behind them to blast into the cavern and send the torches guttering. They sputtered, and then went out. The last thing Thorin saw was the whites around Legolas' eyes.

"They will not relight!" called Elladan.

"Get them lit!" Gimli cried urgently, and he was echoed by shouts from many of the Dúnedain. "Get those bedamned torches lit!"

"Here!" Aragorn shouted. "Here, my friends and kin! Come to my voice!"

"Look!" Frerin suddenly said, and his voice was only just shy of a scream. "The walls! The walls!"

For they had begun to glow with a sickly greenish light. It was not the odd luminescence of cave-algae, nor the dim twinkle of glow-worms. Both of these were as familiar to Dwarves as the sound of hammer on steel. This glow caused the freezing fear in Thorin's chest to stop his heart in its mad rhythm. For there were shapes in it: great pillared buildings and massive ornate facades, elegant colonnades and boulevards and a wide and graceful palace. All of them exuded a sense of unspeakable _wrongness._ All the while, the greenish glow pulsed and throbbed. Thorin tasted bile in the back of his throat. The flesh of his back pricked and crawled.

"I summon you!" Aragorn cried again, and he turned a circle with his unlit torch brandished high and Andúril shining before him. "I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

The horses bucked and reared all at once and the Grey Company was forced to settle them. Halbarad had to hold his hand before the eyes of his steed and whisper in its ears, his stern mien softening slightly as he spoke soothingly in a flattened ear. The Half-Elven lords were smoothing down the faces and murmuring liquid Elvish words to their horses, and Elrohir had Brego's bridle wrapped around his wrist. Arod's withers were visibly trembling, but he remained behind Legolas though his eyes rolled and his nostrils were flared wide as he breathed hard.

"What's got into them?" Frerin wondered.

" _Who enters my domain?"_

Legolas had an arrow notched faster than the eye could follow, but there was nothing to be fired upon. The voice came from nowhere.

Gimli's hands were trembling upon his axe-handle. "Who in Mahal's blessed name is that," he breathed in horror.

"The dead," Legolas said softly. "They have come."

"One who will have your allegiance," Aragorn said proudly, and he lifted his chin. He still wore the tattered leathers of a ranger, and his hair was still stringy and his face unwashed and weathered, but something of the nobility of the Argonath had entered his expression and he wore it well.

And then an apparition appeared before them: a ghoul of decaying flesh and white-rotted eyes, bathed in that rank green light and wearing a crown of bones upon its head. _"The dead do not suffer the living to pass,"_ he said, and his skull could be seen shifting and sliding beneath the exposed muscle of his cheek.

"You will suffer me," said Aragorn. It was not a challenge. It was a simple statement of what the future held.

The King began to laugh, and it reverberated around the cavern until Thorin's whole body seemed to shake with it. Then he began to advance upon the small group of travellers in grey, and the dreadful corpse-light flickered around his sneer. _"The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. And the dead keep it!"_

"Thorin!" Frerin shrieked, for all around them before the houses of the unnatural city had appeared an army of grotesque nightmares: of half-formed Men with their faces in various states of decomposition, their arms little more than bone and their rotting lips peeling away from their grinning teeth.

"Hold fast!" Thorin barked, and he pulled his brother as tightly to his side as he possibly could. "Hold strong, nadad!"

" _The way is shut_ ," said the King, and he grinned his skull-like grin. " _Now you must die."_

Legolas unloosed an arrow, and it flew straight through the ghoul without piercing him.

"No use," Gimli said. "These bastards willnae die when they're dead already!"

Aragorn stood fast as the dead poured towards him, breaking around him like a mouldering, rotting sea. Only the ripple of his jaw revealed his unease as the King of the Dead raised his ancient green-lit sword and brought it down towards him.

The shivery _clang_ of blades meeting rang through the cavern.

Aragorn smiled grimly over the shining length of Andúril.

" _The blade was broken!_ " the King hissed, and Aragorn reached for that stinking, ragged neck and gripped in it one fist.

"It has been remade," he grated, before throwing the ghoul back into the press of his undead fellows.

The restless sea of the Dead stilled, and the King straightened to stare at Aragorn with intent and eerie fascination. "Fight for us and regain your honour," said Aragorn, and he levelled Andúril at the horde before him. "What say you?"

"Ach! You waste your time Aragorn. They had no honour in life and they have none now in death," Gimli muttered.

Frerin frowned for a moment. "I wonder…"

Thorin spared him a second's glance, but his attention was far more firmly placed on the sight of Aragorn striding through the ranks of dead warriors clad in ancient armour. His long ranger's coat flapped at his sides, and his hair was drenched in fear-sweat. He looked nothing like a figure of legend, and yet _everything_ like one.

"Only the King of Gondor may command me," sneered the Shadow-King.

"You look upon Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Aragorn said, and then he took a deep breath and set his shoulders squarely. "I am Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor. Fight for me and I will hold your oaths fulfilled."

"He's really doing it," Frerin whispered. "He's going to take his place and his name at last."

"You do your oath to Boromir proud," said Thorin, and something eased inside him. Though he had no wish to pick up these threads of destiny, Aragorn was honouring his commitment to his friend. Boromir's beloved city would have its King.

The King of the Dead stared at Aragorn with his milky eyes, and then the shadow-host began to fade. The strange glow throbbed and ebbed and the buildings sank back into the stone even as Gimli turned around to try to watch their disappearance. "Stand, you traitors!" he roared, but the ropy whiteness of his knuckles around his axe betrayed his terror.

"What say you?" Aragorn cried, leaping forward, but the King of the Dead and all his kind were gone, and only the echo answered him.

"Aragorn, they are gone," said Halbarad. Even his grim expression seemed a little shaken.

"They have been summoned," Aragorn answered, his face hard and unyielding. "To the Stone of Erech."

"Will they hold to that?" Gimli asked.

"We will see," said Legolas, and he laid a hand upon Arod's soft nose. The horse whinnied nervously and his skin was twitching as though a thousand flies were set upon his hide.

"A miracle none of those animals have stampeded or kicked yet." Thorin shook his head in disbelief, and Legolas frowned.

"Did you hear something?"

"The rock beneath us groans and cries for release," Gimli said, and he rubbed at his numbed mouth. "This place is sickened beyond anything I have ever felt. It is poisoned: rotted through! Not even the haunt of the Balrog felt so foul!"

The raspy slither of something nameless was carried to them over another sudden gust of wind, and Gimli cried out and dropped to one knee as his legs gave out.

"Gimli!" said Legolas, and pulled the Dwarf to his feet. "Stand fast!"

"Ach, girdîn, girdînel, gerdar! Must I weep and crawl to follow Aragorn?" Gimli muttered beneath his breath. "Now the road has darkened indeed: I would not prove faithless, I would stay my course. If only my feet could carry me!"

"Courage, meleth nin," Legolas said, and his neck bowed as though he wished to lay his cheek upon Gimli's madly snarled hair.

"Courage, my star," Thorin echoed.

"Aragorn! Whither now? We must get out," said Halbarad.

"There is a tunnel!" said Elladan, and Aragorn nodded, before gesturing to the Elf-lord to take the lead. The other twin, Elrohir, glanced back at Legolas and Gimli and a strange and faintly puzzled look crossed his face momentarily, though it did not seem disparaging.

"Aye, you heard something," Gimli said shortly as they fell in behind The Grey Company. Elladan and Aragorn had the lead, torches low and guttering, sending disturbing shadows dancing over the tunnel walls.

"Ah, they are here also?" Legolas murmured. "Surely this hillside is too crowded already for more of the dead to fit within."

Gimli huffed a small laugh, and he looked up at Legolas and met his eyes. There was a wordless moment in the darkness as Dwarf and Elf simply looked at each other, and then Gimli said wryly, "that is not, actually, much of a comfort. But I thank you for the thought nevertheless."

"I cannot see nor sense the spirits of those faithless Men here," Thorin told Gimli. "They do not share our half-light, it seems. Theirs is a curse that has no surcease." Then he folded his arms. "Tell him, my star. Tell him you love him, and cease this maddening half-dance!"

"You are not helpful," Gimli grumbled. The bob of his throat betrayed his continued dread. "My king cannot see the cursed ones. It's as though they have melted back into this poisoned stone."

"That does not mean they are not following," Thorin said, scouring the darkness as though his glare could force it to give up its secrets. Then he fixed Gimli with another hard look. "Tell him!

"Ach!" said Gimli, and his body trembled like a leaf, shoulders bunching as though warding off unseen blows. "I will be undone by terror; I cannot go on. I will be crawling upon the ground like a beast before this is done." His voice quavered upon the last words. "My lord, I need you. I need your aid. Do not make this harder than it must be for me."

Frerin gave Thorin's arm a hard pinch. "Really, nadad," he muttered. "Your timing is still completely awful."

"I can hear the step of shadow-feet behind us," said Elrohir, and Gimli's eyes squeezed shut momentarily.

"Gimli, gerich 'ûn sui raw, estelion allen," said Legolas softly. "I am here, meleth nin."

"Why are you not afeared?" Gimli burst out, and he pried one hand from his axe-handle to roughly wipe at his clammy forehead. "There is a freezing sense of horror all around us. Death is everywhere here, can you not feel it?"

"What end may come will come," said Legolas. His voice was remote - even distant - but his hand drifted down to rest comfortingly upon Gimli's shoulder. "I will not fear it and I will not regret it."

"How can you _say_ that?" Gimli demanded, and his thick fingers fumbled at his shoulder to grasp Legolas' hand and hold tightly. "You should live forever! Why resign yourself to such an end, one that was never meant for Elves?"

Legolas smiled into the darkness, though there was no joy in it. "Once, yes. Now? Now my end may come soon or late, but it will come nevertheless."

"We may yet live to see this war end," Gimli said pleadingly. "Legolas, you cannot hold your life so cheaply! Do not despair!"

The Elf blinked, and then he laughed under his breath. "Did it seem that I said so?"

Gimli only glared at him, his chest rising and falling quickly with his breaths.

"I am sorry, my friend," Legolas ducked his head. "That was not my meaning."

Thorin frowned. "Then what was his meaning?"

"But you, Gimli, do not let this fear master you!" Legolas was saying, and he gave Gimli's shoulder a gentle shake. "You have stood stalwart before impossible odds and laughed – you have faced death over and over, and never faltered. Why now do you shrink back?"

"I'm not afraid of death, daft Elf," Gimli muttered, and he rubbed at his sweaty brow once more. Behind him, Arod softly whickered. Hooves echoed through the tunnel. The soft clacking shuffle of bony feet could barely be heard, tantalisingly out of range. "My kinsman is proof that welcome waits for me. No - no, I'm afraid o' dying. There's a distinction, lad."

"Ohhhh," said Frerin, a dumbfounded look of realisation upon his face. Thorin narrowed his eyes at his brother.

"What does it mean?"

Frerin tugged at Thorin's sleeve. "I think I know," he whispered. "Thorin, remember what Aragorn said…"

Cold ice skittered down Thorin's spine. "No," he said blankly. " _No."_

Frerin leaned forward and began to speak very rapidly and very softly. "Remember, Aragorn said that Elves can die from a broken heart? Well, these two simpletons are afraid of the same thing! Legolas thinks he's going to die of unrequited longing – that whole 'lie-down-and-die' thing – and so he doesn't care what happens to him now because he thinks he's on borrowed time. But _Gimli_ is afraid that when he dies, either in battle or of mortal age, that Legolas will also die of grief. Which is the whole reason he hasn't spoken, after all: he thinks that by never allowing Legolas to love him he can keep Legolas alive." Then he paused. "Which isn't working anyway, it seems, if Legolas thinks he's going to die of longing without even so much as having kissed…"

He trailed off in the face of Thorin's sudden and thunderous silence.

Thorin stared at his brother. Then he said, in a very flat and deliberate tone, "do you mean to tell me that this pair of _fools_ are in fact causing the very thing they fear through this _idiocy_?"

Frerin gave him a worried little smile. "Um…"

"Lalâkh!" Thorin exploded. "Lalâkhel! Oh, a noble son of Durin's line you are, indeed – you monumental _lackwit_!"

"Well, you didn't even know yours when you saw him!" Gimli retorted immediately, his deep voice made hoarse and tight with fear. Thorin swelled with outrage and prepared to launch another blistering tirade at his foolish, self-sacrificing, _thickheaded_ star, when –

"I heard that," said Legolas, eyes very wide.

"What?" said Gimli and Thorin and Frerin in unison.

"I heard a voice, a voice raised in anger, one I have not heard in eighty years," Legolas said. "He spoke in the secret Dwarvish tongue, and… and called you a lackwit?" His nose wrinkled.

Frerin groaned and put his head in his hands. "Oh, _Thorin."_

Legolas glanced sidelong at Gimli. "I am not wrong, am I?"

Gimli looked up at Legolas for a beat, his face parchment-rough and pale in the flickering dead glow of the torches. "No, you aren't wrong, laddie," he said. Then his breath snagged in his mouth audibly as a realisation struck him, and he began to plead, "my lord, my lord – _no."_

Thorin drew himself up tall, and faced Legolas directly. An old, feeble voice deep in the pit of his stomach began to rage, ' _but he is an Elf! He is Thranduil's son! He took your weapon from your hand, aimed an arrow between your eyes, named your brave star orc-spawn, locked you in a cell!'_

But an older, wiser and calmer voice now drowned out those old, pitiful hatreds, and Thorin could now see Legolas, the one who stepped between Gimli and Éomer; Legolas, the one who reached out to a grieving Dwarf in the glades of Lothlórien; Legolas, the one who had once, briefly, saved his life.

"Greetings to you, Legolas Thranduillion," he said, and inclined his head. Behind him, he heard Frerin's swift intake of breath. "You swore never to harm him by hand, word or deed, and you have proved true as steel. You have my gratitude."

Gimli made a soft noise of despair and turned away.

"Hail, Thorin son of Thráin," Legolas said, his voice faint, and he then suddenly stood straight and his bright elven eyes darted at the trudging Grey Company some distance ahead.

"They haven't noticed," said Frerin, frowning at them. "I don't think they can hear, that far away. Besides, the air is full of strange whispers."

"Get the others," Thorin muttered to him.

Frerin gave him a warning look, and pulled at one of his temple-braids. "Keep your temper."

Thorin waved him away irritably. "Yes, yes, I will hold it fast. Get them, and my sword too. Tell them to arm themselves. We may yet be facing this host in both life and death, and I would see us prepared." Frerin nodded and flashed away in a sudden halo of starlight.

"There, now my brother has left, and I may speak freely," Thorin said, and he fell in step between Elf and Dwarf as they walked through the claustrophobic tunnel.

"Please," Gimli said, low. "Please, my lord, do not – Melhekhel, ikhuzh!"

"Keep going," Thorin told them. "I will speak as we walk."

" _I beg of you-"_

"No, my star, calm yourself," Thorin said, as gently as he was able. "I will not speak of that which is yours to tell."

Gimli sagged. "Ah."

"I have something to say to this Elf, however."

Legolas appeared far, far more disturbed at hearing Thorin than he was at witnessing the dishonoured dead. He stiffened, wary. "To me?"

"Aye," said Thorin, and amusement and frustration warred within him. Was this how his Company had felt, witnessing him and Bilbo all those years ago? Fond, and yet also considering the best way to crack their skulls together?

 _Do not think of Bilbo,_ he told himself sternly. He grasped his fingers together behind his back and gazed ahead at the Company, some distance along the tunnel. Gimli's heavy, assertive footfalls had become plodding and fearful, and the Elf's light leather shoes were barely audible as they moved through the whispering, clinging blackness after the bobbing torches. "Will you hear me?"

"I am listening," said Legolas. His face was still and blank and proud, but Thorin now knew that it was no indication of unfeeling. "I will hear your words."

"I have learned much in eighty years, son of Thranduil," said Thorin after a beat. "I have learned that much I held true is false, and much that I held false is true. I will not be wroth with you if you should scorn it, but know that I am sorry."

Legolas blinked. "Why should you say such things to me? Son of Thranduil am I, but I am not my father."

"And well do I know it – now," said Thorin, and he blew out a sigh from between his teeth. "I thought you all alike, in my rage and resentment. Honourless, disloyal, deceitful. I thought you unfeeling and cold-blooded; I thought the whole world would happily wade through Dwarven blood to grasp at our relics and our history and our treasures, quarrelling and bargaining even as we starved to death. I saw treachery everywhere I looked, and chiefly from those of elvenkind. I have hated you."

Legolas was silent.

"I have learned better, if too late."

"Nay, lord," Legolas shook his fair head. "Why should you have questioned what seemed to be truth? For I was there. Gimli may forgive as easily as he breathes, but I was there, and I know what was demanded and what was taken and what was given and what was stolen. I was there. I remember arguing with my dear friend that the troubles of Dwarves were nothing to us. I remember admiring a sword-hilt in my hand and taking it for my own, even as I accused you of being a thief and a liar. I remember that two whole armies were camped before the gates of a shattered Kingdom in order to coerce gold from thirteen Dwarves. I saw the gates shatter and the eagles scream, and a pale Orc stood upon the ice and my quiver ran dry of arrows. I was there."

"Aye, you were there," said Thorin and he let the frigid air fill his lungs until they ached. "And you remember what depths I sank to, in my madness. You remember my ears stoppered by the clink of gold, all my promises broken and all my resentment turned against the world. Despite it all, that sword you returned to me, and in the most timely manner possible. For my part, then, I am sorry."

Legolas bowed his head. "And I for mine."

"It has not been a painless process," Thorin continued and he kept his eyes looking ahead, feeling the swing of his legs in time with those of Gimli and the Elf. "It takes a long time to change the mind of a Dwarf, for we are slow to change, and even more time to change one of our line in particular. When you joined the Fellowship I thought you exactly like your father and railed against you. I held you responsible for his doings and failings. And later I thought your overtures of friendship a lie, and that you would in time prove false. My eyes could only see the one who took my blade, not the one who gave it back."

"Û, King Thorin," Legolas said, holding up a hand. "I need no explanations. If you have watched, then you have seen. I thought your people covetous, brutish, incapable of any true gentleness of spirit. I was an ignorant fool and I have also learned better. There is this, at least: I am grateful that I am able to say this to you, and not to your memory."

"My memory," Thorin snorted softly. "Tell it to the living and not the dead."

"I have," said Legolas, and his eyes darted down to Gimli who was listening with a faint crease upon his broad brow. "I do."

"You do not say enough," Thorin growled.

Legolas, so graceful and sure-footed, missed a step.

"Once, upon the battlements of Helms Deep, you pledged to me any service, any penance I might ask," Thorin said, and behind his back his hands tightened together, fingers squeezing. "For his safety, you begged me to find him and safeguard him. For the love we both bear him."

Gimli came to a dead stop, and his eyes were huge.

"Now I charge you, Legolas," Thorin said, and he turned to face Gimli in the darkness and smiled at his star's speechless, horrified face, "speak your heart."

Legolas could only gape, struck dumb. For such an ageless creature, ten times over Thorin's own age, suddenly his face looked quite young.

"Will you honour your word? I will not hold you to it," Thorin said. "But you may find your reception rather different than you had feared it to be."

Legolas' mouth closed shut with a loud _snap_!

"Stop," Gimli snarled. "Stop it, stop playing such games with us!"

"Then you know what you must do, Gimli," Thorin said calmly. "Tell him."

Gimli's mouth fell open around half-shaped words, and then he slumped.

"You have indeed learned and your acceptance is more than I could ever have guessed at, but you are not the one to whom I must speak my heart," Legolas said from between gritted teeth. "And I have not yet found the words that mortals use. In that, at least, I am still an Elf as you had imagined us to be."

"Lad," Gimli said, and he raised his hand with a tired expression. "Lad, hold it there, there's no need. I know."

"You _know!?"_

"Aye."

Legolas stared at Gimli, dumb once more. Utter hurt crossed his face, followed by flashes of pain and disbelief, before the blank mask came stealing back over his features to turn them back into waxy stone. "I see."

"No you don't, and don't think I'll forget this, Thorin Thráinul," Gimli spat.

"You are not afraid any longer," Thorin pointed out.

"Not of this foul freezing place, no. Now I have new and deeper fears!" Gimli began to stalk after the Grey Company once again, his face thunderous and his eyes ablaze. His boots hit the cold floor as though he were trying to smash it.

"What do you mean, you know?" Legolas said, hard and fast, and he sprang after the Dwarf. "Why did you not say?"

"Why did you not?" Gimli retorted.

"I did not know how," Legolas said. "Elves do not need these clumsy words, these awkward declarations so prone to misconstruction and rejection and other unpleasantries. We can feel these things in the rhythm between us, between our steps and our laughter and our breaths. We know why we seek each other out and why our songs sound sweeter when sung together. Why should I know the words Dwarves use for love?"

Gimli's breath punched out of him in a low 'ah!' at that word, and for a second he looked as though he had been struck. Then he shook his head. "We have found new words to span our different ways," he said. "Why – truly, why?"

Thorin stepped back and folded his arms in satisfaction, watching.

Someone appeared at his elbow, and glancing to his side Thorin saw Lóni staring at the half-seen shapes of the quarrelling Dwarf and Elf. "Oh no, what's happened now?" he groaned. "Has that fatheaded rogue stuck his overlarge foot in it again?"

Around him, the star-lined figures of Dwarves came fading into the gloom, and Frerin pushed through them to stand stock-still beside Thorin at the sight before them. "Thorin!" he said in dismay.

"I have kept my temper," Thorin told him, fighting the twitching of his lips.

"What have you _done_?"

"What should have been done in Edoras," Thorin said, and he threw a companionable arm around his little brother. "You know, these darksome unwholesome holes might actually become a favourite place of mine?"

"You are not funny," snapped Frerin.

"I am hilarious," said Thorin, perfectly straight-faced.

"Did my affection amuse you so?" Legolas was demanding in an icy tone. His resemblance to Thranduil had never been so pronounced. "Did it make you laugh, the Elf so foolish as to care for you? Did I prove a good diversion, my Lord Dwarf?"

"Stop that, stop it, stop it now!" Gimli hissed, and he glanced at the Grey Company ahead before he whirled and stuck a thick finger into Legolas' chest. "I held my tongue for your sake, you quarrelsome fluff-brained _wood-headed_ Elf, so do not accuse me of such heartlessness! Do you think me so selfish as to watch my friends suffer for sport? Well, I thank you for your good opinion of me, O _Prince_ Legolas!"

" _My_ opinion!" Legolas cried. "Gimli, you know I love you! You _know,_ and you said nothing!"

"Aye, and had my meddlesome kinsman never spoken, Mahal curse him, I would have kept silent to my grave." Gimli knuckled his eyes.

"Nay, I thank him," Legolas said, and his eyes shone with anger and pain even though his face remained impassive. "I thank him. You hear me, Thorin Oakenshield? I thank you for your service to me. For I did not know I was handing my heart to one who cared nothing for it. Nin gwerianneg, ai, meleth nin!"

Gimli began to stride along the tunnel once more, and his cheeks were beginning to mottle. "Pointed ears do not work, it seems! For I clearly remember saying that I did this for your sake, you foolish mad creature. For your sake, none other! Why else would I allow you to draw away from me, to avoid me, to punish us both? Why else, when I would have you by my side as ever?"

"This was no kindness, Gimli," said Legolas. There was a snap in his long stride that spoke eloquently of his fury. Yet he never outpaced the Dwarf, though with his long legs it would be easy. "We have bridged such vast oceans of mistrust and misconceptions, you and I, that this comes as a doubly-hard betrayal. I cannot see how your refusal is for my sake, not if…"

"I will not be responsible for your death!" Gimli finally bellowed, and he rounded upon Legolas again and stood with his fists balled tightly around his axe. "I _cannot_!"

The echoes rang through the tunnel, and Elrohir, Aragorn and several rangers all looked back and raised their torches to peer frowningly at the pair. "Gimli, Legolas?" Aragorn called. "Ci maer? Prestad?"

"Ú-iston," said Legolas to himself, and then he raised a hand and called back, "Gwaem, Aragorn."

Elrohir's forehead furrowed ever so slightly and his head tipped to one side as he studied the red-faced, furious Dwarf and the stony, wild-eyed Elf. "Do not fall too far behind," he eventually said.

Gimli clapped his helm onto his head, and began to trudge after the Grey Company in angry silence. Legolas breathed hard through his nose, still as a statue for a few heartbeats, before he shook himself, took Arod's halter in a death-grip, and stalked after him.

"What's all this about?" said Nori from behind Thorin.

"Our mighty leader here has thrown a mouse amongst spitting wildcats," sighed Lóni.

"Oh." Nori chewed on that for a moment, and then said, "so who'll lay a coin? Gimli on first blow, three to one, best I can do for you, special-like because we're all friends here, eh?"

"Not _now_ , Nori," said Ori, and to Thorin's left Óin huffed in agreement.

"Pipe down, some of us are trying tae listen!"

"Oh, fished yourself out of your tankard, have you?" said Nori mockingly, and Óin growled low in his throat.

Thráin cleared his throat. "Out of academic interest, what odds would there be on Legolas to strike the first blow?"

"Four on the Elf!"

"On Gimli – to kiss him!"

Óin stamped a foot. "I said hush up! Mahal wept, y' make me wish I were still deaf!"

"Best be calm now, everyone, best not to argue," said Balin in his kind, gentle way.

"Looks as though they've been takin' care o' that without our help anyway," added Náli.

"All right, we're all here," said Frís, and by her side Haban raised her axes and gave them a virtuosic spin. Finally, Fíli stepped forward, bristling like an armoury, and handed Thorin his long, curved sword – made by his own hand in Orcrist's image and the only one that had escaped his wrath. Kíli stood beside him as always, and Frerin scuttled forward with his poniard held in his hands.

"Don't you dare send me away," he said warningly.

Thorin's hand landed in Frerin's hair, and he tapped their foreheads together. "No, not today," he agreed.

"You're rather pleased with yourself," Frís said, her eyebrows rising.

Thorin could feel the smile pulling at his lips and so he let it bloom. "They're talking at last."

"Let's hope you haven't done more harm than good," Thrór said, and Hrera pinched him.

"Have some hope if you can, you old grump," she commanded him sternly. "Goodness knows we need it, in this dank place! Thorin, darling, where in Telphor's name are we?"

"The Paths of the Dead," replied Thorin, buckling the sword to his side. He would have to think of a name. It was not as light nor sharp as Orcrist and it lacked the fine carvings and ornamentation. No curling Elvish words lay upon its sides and it certainly had no dragon's tooth embedded in its hilt, but the curve of the blade was exactly the same. "We have travelled beneath the cursed mountain and now we approach the vale before the mouths of Anduin that run towards the sea. And they can hear us."

"Hear us?" Lóni's eyebrows shot up, and he gripped Frár's hand more tightly. "What do you mean, hear us?"

"Actually…" Frerin scratched his head. "I think it's still just you."

"Nay, I hear many voices of Dwarves, though the King is the most easily heard," said Legolas suddenly, making half the assembled Dwarves jerk with surprise. "Such a crowd there is, and you grow clearer as we travel! But how can that be?"

"I don't know," said Ori when every eye turned to him for explanation. "Don't just assume I know!"

"Well, you _do_ know an awful lot," pointed out Náli.

Bifur's chest puffed up proudly, and he slid his arm around Ori's waist and beamed at all and sundry.

"The Stone of Erech," said Thráin. "Is there something unnatural about it?"

"There is nothing natural about this place at all," said Gimli. "The very air stinks of death."

"What did you mean, my death?" said Legolas, more quietly. He would not look down at Gimli.

Gimli's lips tightened, and he would not speak.

"Oh, what a mess," sighed Frís. "Thorin, both your wildcats have climbed trees now, and will not come down."

Frerin prodded him. "What did I say? Timing, nadad!"

" _My_ timing? It is past time, and past time again," Thorin said, and he let his hand slide up the hilt of his sword to the crossguard, where he gripped it securely. The weight of it at his hip was a comfort: he had almost forgotten how it made him feel, to bear it by his side. "There is never time. Or it is never the best time. Or time carries you away from the moment, and it is forever lost. I have learned – oh, how I have learned! - and the learning is hard cruel. There is never a right time. Either all times are right, or no time is. And then at the last and sooner than you can ever dream, there is no time at all. All chances are flown, and you are trapped beyond all hope of love as though behind transparent glass, watching life move on without you. I have told you before, Gimli, and I will say it as many times as I must: For you, it is not too late."

"Ach, you mine where there is no metal. I can endure no more: I will find an ending to this or run back and face the horrors behind!" Gimli grated. "Why, if you love me, would you force him to speak?"

"Because I will not see you tread my lonely path, whatever doom may come," Thorin said, and heard Legolas' slight gasp. "We are not wise in love, we of the Line of Durin. Your wilful stubbornness is neither strength nor wisdom, and no amount of noble intent can make it so. Aye, son of Glóin, ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu: I love you enough to stop you. I would die over again before I saw it done."

"Can you see anything?" said Elrohir, calling back.

"The light grows stronger!" said Halbarad, and he began to pick up the pace. "We near the end, surely!"

Suddenly there was a new sound in the tunnel, the faint plinking of water. The light grew and grew and Gimli's tread became firmer as the dread of that terrible place left him. The tunnel abruptly opened up into a broad and shallow vale, and Gimli blinked in amazement as the wind touched his face and tugged at his beard. Dusk was upon them, and the sky was swiftly turning from purple to deepest blue, the stars only just beginning to shine. "Air!" he said. "Never have I been so fearful below the earth. I will never pour scorn on those who live upon the surface ever again."

"Starlight!" Legolas breathed, and he tipped his head backwards and allowed it to bathe his face. His hair hung like a golden sheet behind him. "How can it only be hours since we entered by the black door? It seems years, decades – or I have grown older since."

"Nine million, perhaps," Gimli muttered, and then he finally looked up at the Elf. "We must speak."

Legolas did not move, gazing with unblinking eyes at the sky. "Yes, we must," he said, and Thorin shivered at the freezing anger in his voice.

"Where to, Aragorn?" Halbarad called, and he mounted his horse in one practised move and span her around. The mare's feet picked up high as she fairly pranced with suppressed nerves, her eyes rolling. Only the firm, gentle hand of the Dúnedain kept her in check.

"The Stone lies not three hours away, towards the river-fords," replied Aragorn, likewise mounting Brego. "We shall be there just before midnight."

"How very appropriate," said Ori, drily.

Legolas stroked a hand down Arod's nose, before he whispered a word in the horse's ear and swung onto his back. Then, perfectly blank-faced, he wheeled Arod to where Gimli stood and held out a hand.

"Will you ride?" he said, without tone or inflection to betray his thoughts.

Gimli hesitated, and then said, "if you do not wish to be burdened by me, then…"

"Will you ride?" Legolas repeated, his expression wooden, and his hand remained outstretched.

Gimli flushed with shame, before grasping Legolas' hand and allowing himself to be swung behind the saddle. Once seated in his customary spot, his huge hands hovered uncertainly for a moment over Legolas' waist, before settling upon his own thighs.

Aragorn took then the furled staff that Elrond had brought, carried by Elladan, and unrolled the standard upon it. If there was any device upon the flapping flag, Thorin could not see it: it appeared black against black in the darkness, a hole cut into the night sky. "Follow close," he said, and kneed Brego into a jangling trot.

"Can we keep pace?" said Frár, and Frerin muffled a snicker.

" _I_ could, but I don't know about you," he said, a trifle smugly.

"More running," Óin sighed.

"Three hours ain't so bad," said Náli. "At least it ain't all day!"

"Well, we've surely done the scenic route around Rohan," commented Nori wryly. "Seen more of it than I ever wanted to. I could probably organise tours."

Brego let out a loud bray, and then the Grey Company was moving, moving through the night, and Thorin's company followed. "This must be the Vale of Morthond," Balin puffed as they ran after the horses. "Men live here, bound to Gondor's rule."

"Can you see that?" called Elladan abruptly, last of the Company, his keen eyes peering back at the Dwarves. Thorin came to a sudden stop, warily meeting the Half-elf's gaze.

"Do they see us?" whispered Haban incredulously.

"Nah, they can't!" whispered back Kíli, waving a hand in dismissal. "How could they?"

"What can you see?" said Aragorn. "Legolas, tell us, what do the eyes of the Elves show? Gimli, what do your night-eyes see?"

"It is dark, but I can make them out," Legolas said, turning Arod slightly and pausing upon a slight rise. At his back, Gimli squinted into the darkness – and met Thorin's eyes.

 _I see you, Lord,_ Gimli's hands said, moving in surreptitious Iglishmêk.

 _Follow, do not speak._ Thorin signalled back.

"What?" said Halbarad, frowning and twisting back in his saddle to stare behind him.

"The Dead are following," said Legolas. "I see shapes of Men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following."

'Yes, the Dead ride behind. They have been summoned,' said Elladan.

Thorin sent a quick look behind him, and then turned back as fast as possible. "Do not look behind us," he said low, and drew Frerin and Frís near. "Do not turn around."

"Do you see them also, Legolas?" Gimli murmured.

"Yes," Legolas said quietly. "A host of Dwarves, outlined in white fire, led by your kinsman."

"My uncle stands there to his left," said Gimli, and sorrow flashed across his face. "That must be my lord's brother, with the lucky hair. There is Balin, and Lóni – ah, my friend, my friend, you look so young! – clever Ori and old Náli, and there is Bifur without his great wound! Oh unkhash, Fíli, Kíli, my cousins...! Oh, that I should see you standing there as though you yet breathe, and was I ever so young as that? Were you truly thus when you went away and died and left me leaderless? Nekhushel! This is a knife to the very heart of me. This has been an evil day, and an evil night to follow!"

"Do the others not see them?" wondered Legolas. "They must be thirty or more."

"It seems not," Gimli said. "Perhaps we two see them because we were connected to them?"

"Perhaps," Legolas said, and his tone was distant and cool. He turned Arod with a clucking noise of his tongue, and pressed on after the Grey Company.

"Drat," sighed Hrera. "It seems Elves may be as stupidly intransigent as Longbeards."

"Save your breath and run," Thorin said, and picked up the pace.

"You'll command me no such thing, grandson of mine," she said acidly, and picked up her elaborate skirts and charged ahead, head high. "A 'please' here and there would not go astray."

_Do not think of Bilbo!_

"My apologies," Thorin managed, and put his head down. He could feel Fíli's eyes against his back, and ignored them as best he could.

There followed an uncomfortable few hours. The Grey Company followed Aragorn's dark banner through the night, and all the while a freezing unnatural chill followed them. Thorin resolutely did not look behind again, but he knew Frerin had when his brother yelped and slowed his swift pace to keep beside their father. The Dwarves all ran as steadily as they were able, trusting in their natural endurance, and Thorin silently thanked Aragorn and all the small mercies that the Grey Company never rose above a canter.

The Morthond Vale was indeed populated, but the terror of the dead caused every settlement to slam their doors and douse their lights as the Company passed. Bells rang before them, and people could be seen fleeing into the night. Whispers and half-choked screams followed them as the people huddled in their houses, and as they neared the Hill of Erech the small villages thinned until there were no signs of habitation. None lived in this place.

"Fewer folks than I expected, from the number of hamlets," said Balin, and in his hand he gripped a thick-bladed sword. "Many of these buildings lie empty."

"They will have fled this ghostly army," said Thrór. "Those who live near this cursed Mountain will no doubt know its legends well, and will have deserted their homesteads at the rumour of the Dead."

"Wisely, no doubt," Balin agreed, and he wiped at his forehead with his forearm. "And too, the war to the south will have taken many away."

Ahead, the Hill of Erech loomed and at its crest lay a truly remarkable sight.

"That must be it," said Ori, and indeed nobody could argue. "The Stone of Erech."

It was round as a great globe, the height of a man, though its half was buried in the ground. Unearthly it looked, as though it had fallen from the sky, as some believed; but those who remembered still the lore of Westernesse told that it had been brought out of the ruin of Númenor and there set by Isildur at his landing.

To that Stone the Company came and halted in the dead of night. Then Aragorn passed his standard back to Halbarad, who held it aloft. Elrohir gave to Aragorn a silver horn, and he blew upon it and it seemed to those that stood near that they heard a sound of answering horns, as if it was an echo in deep caves far away. No other sound they heard, and yet they were aware of a great host gathered all about the hill on which they stood; and an icy wind like the breath of ghosts came down from the mountains. But Aragorn dismounted, and standing by the Stone he cried in a great voice:

"Will you fight?"

The wind screamed as it surged again, gusting around the legs of the panting horses and sending Aragorn's hair twisting. Then the terrible chill that had followed the Dwarves all the way from the Dwimorberg seemed to coalesce and take shape once more, and the King of the Dead grinned his skull-like sneer as he stepped forward from thin air into the living world.

Aragorn lifted his sword. "Oathbreakers, why have ye come?"

The King said nothing, and his milky eyes bored into Aragorn. Around him the skeletal force of the cursed dead faded into view, gathering close around the great Stone like a moat around a castle.

"This is the hour," breathed Thorin. "This is the moment he steps from the shadows into his mantle and into history."

"Will you fight?" Aragorn demanded again.

The King breathed out, his breath misting green before him, and then he said, " _We fight. We will fulfil our oath and have peace_."

Then Aragorn's eyelids pressed closed, and his shoulders sagged slightly as though he bowed under the new weight he now bore. Then he straightened and levelled his grey stare at the ghoul and said: "The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and you shall come after me. And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and you shall have peace and depart for ever. This I swear as Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor."

The King of the Dead slowly bowed his head to Aragorn, the bones of his spine clacking together. " _Where you lead, we shall follow."_

Aragorn nodded gravely, and then he sheathed Anduril and turned to the Grey Company. "We camp here," he said, a sudden weariness in his face and stance. "We will ride on upon the morrow." He turned to the King and inclined his head, and the ghoul smiled his gruesome smile in response and faded from sight. Though the shadow-host melted from view, still the air seemed thick and cloying and the faint greenish tinge of the night sky was more than simple starlight.

Gimli slid down from Arod's back, his feet hitting the sod with a loud thud. Legolas did likewise, and wordlessly began to unbuckle Arod's saddle. Gimli seemed about to speak, but appeared to think better of it. Instead he unshouldered his roll and took off his helm once more. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead in meandering trails.

"Gimli," said Thorin.

"You are not in my greatest graces right at this moment, Thorin Oakenshield, if you don't mind," Gimli growled, and he began to pull his axes from his belt with sharp, jerky motions and throw them onto the worn wool.

"You have that right," Thorin said, and his heart sank slightly. "But have you no kind word for those with me?"

Finally Gimli looked up and his eyes met Thorin's once more. As before in Galadriel's mirror, to have his star see him, actually _see_ him, was a staggering thing after so many years of being little more than a whisper in the wind. "Aye," Gimli said, hoarse, and then he cleared his throat. "And if it were not for your foolish games I would have kinder words for you also, my beloved Lord."

"What I did I have done for you, Gimli," said Thorin.

"That may be, but what I did I did for _him,_ " Gimli said, biting off the words in his anger. He turned away, glaring at his axes where they lay upon the bedroll. "Get you gone, Thorin Oakenshield. I will have no more of you this night."

"You'll keep a civil tongue in your head, nidoyel," said Óin crossly. "That's our King, that is. Don't be rude."

Gimli blinked, and then he began to blush like a sixty-year-old. "Sorry, uncle," he mumbled.

"You might have your father's temper, but try holdin' onto it now an' then for a bit o' variety, eh?" Óin smiled, and then beamed. "Ach, look at you. Look at you."

Gimli's head slowly rose, as though he were being dragged to look beyond his will. When he finally looked fully upon Óin, he let out a soft, "aaah!" and his eyes filled with sudden tears.

"You look young," he said. "Younger than I do."

"There's a mystery or two left for you to figure out," said Óin, gently. "I am proud o' you."

"Proud of you," echoed Balin. "Azaghâl belkul."

"Balin," Gimli breathed.

Thorin stepped back, and felt eyes upon the back of his head. Turning slightly he saw the Elf gazing between him and Gimli, a faint puzzled expression in those luminous eyes.

He inclined his head once more, before bowing slightly. Legolas bent his head, and then put his hand over his heart and held it forth in that elegant gesture of Elvenkind. They regarded each other silently for another moment, and then turned back to Gimli.

"….stop giving away so many bloody _secrets,"_ Óin was saying.

"You know better. I taught you better than that!" Balin said sternly, and Gimli waved a hand dismissively as he scoffed.

"Pah, what good do they do? They breed mistrust, is what they do. An' there's nothing shameful about 'em, so why not share 'em with those who care to hear?"

"Because there will be those who don't like the idea of us havin' them in the first place - those who see our secrets as just another shiny bauble they can take from us," growled Lóni, and Gimli shook his head.

"You are always so pessimistic."

"Well, _one_ of us had to be."

"See, this is why you're de…" Gimli managed, and his voice broke off on the last word. He ducked his head and pressed his chin against his chest for a few rapid breaths, and then he looked up again into his best friend's face with a watery smile. "Hello, lad. You look well. That husband o' yours still doing right by you, then?"

Frár only raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Lóni laughed. "Aye, he is, and you need to do likewise. Stop hovering over the gem and cut it already! We're all heartily tired of watching you nobly pining away, you great rascally idiot."

The Elf stepped nearer, and laid the saddle down upon the grass close to where Thorin stood. "Will you tell me who these Dwarves are, and who they are to Gimli?" he said quietly.

Thorin glanced at him, before nodding. "That is Gimli's closest friend, lost in Moria. His sky-name is Lóni, son of Láin, and there is his husband Frár. That is Ori, son of Zhori – lost in Moria also – and there his elder brother Nori. Both were of my company, you may recall them. No doubt you remember Balin and Óin, also. There is my mother, Frís, and Gimli's grandfather…"

Legolas watched, unblinking, as Dwarf after Dwarf greeted Gimli until he was weeping and smiling openly. Thorin quietly named them all, and watched Legolas' breath stop momentarily at Thrór's introduction, and then again at Haban's.

"Why did you charge me to speak?" Legolas finally asked.

Thorin mused for a beat or two, pondering how best to answer. Then he said, "Did you ever meet Bilbo Baggins?"

"Yes, in Imladris," said Legolas. "He kept much to himself after the Battle and I had not the chance then. Why?"

"I love him." Thorin let the words finally fly into the world, and revelled in their simplicity. It was easier than he had ever imagined. "I love him, and I cannot be with him."

When he turned back, Legolas was looking down at him with a new sympathy in his expression. It amazed him somewhat that he had learned to read Elven faces so well. They had seemed so immovable, before. "No, do not pity the dead," he said, and surprised himself with the gentleness of his own tone. "My life was spent well, in service of my kin. That is a better end and a higher honour than I had foreseen, once, when gold was the only thing that seemed of worth to me."

"Still, to love and lose is no small wound," said Legolas softly.

"No, that it is not," Thorin acknowledged. "I would not see others suffer needlessly in this way. Do you blame me, then, as Gimli does?"

"I do not know yet," said Legolas. "We may see."

"Hmm." That would have infuriated him, once: that strange Elven patience. Now Thorin leant his weight upon one leg and folded his arms, watching Gimli interact with his friends and family at last. "Do not let him push you away."

"Why does he do this?" Legolas said, and lifted his eyes again. "He confuses me so!"

"That is not for me to tell you," Thorin sighed. "I do not agree with him, and there lies our contention."

"Did you know also?" Legolas swallowed, though his expression was unchanged. "Did you know that Gimli was… aware of my… my regard?"

Thorin hesitated, and the silence stretched a little too long.

Legolas' eyes squeezed shut. "Ah."

"What a mess," Frerin whispered.

Finally Gimli's tears seemed to have run their course. Frerin pulled absently at one of his short cheek-braids, before peering up at the gloomy, whispering night sky. "Perhaps we should come back later?"

"I would have you stay," said Legolas. "If it is allowed."

Frerin goggled at the Elf.

"My brother, Frerin," Thorin said, and Legolas frowned.

"He is so _y_ -"

"Handsome," snapped Frerin. "Yes, I am, and it's a terrible burden to me but somehow I bear it."

Thorin laid a comforting hand upon the back of Frerin's neck and squeezed reassuringly. "Nadad," he murmured. "He does not mean you any insult."

"I know, I know," Frerin sighed, and he darted a look up at Thorin.

"I cannae believe this," Gimli's hand half-rose as though to touch Fíli's shoulder, and then he appeared to check the motion. "I cannae believe I see you here. Do I dream?"

"No, little coz," said Fíli, smiling broadly. "And neither have you touched a drop, before you ask."

"Little!" Kíli snorted. "He's bigger than either of us now."

"I am always your little cousin," Gimli said, his heart in his voice.

"Those two I remember well," Legolas said, and Thorin felt his jaw clench.

"As you should," was his rather terse rejoinder.

The night was spent merrily for Gimli, at least: surrounded by friends and family, he sang quietly beneath his breath and spoke in a hushed voice of old times as he polished the nick from his axe-blade. Legolas remained near, but he did not interrupt. Many of the Grey Company wondered at this and sent confused looks at the Dwarf (who must have appeared somewhat unhinged by his trek through the Paths), but Legolas only shook his head to them and they moved on without asking. One by one, Thorin's people spoke to Gimli and then left to seek their own beds in the Halls.

Thorin stayed. Frís gave him a loaded look as she left, and he waved his hand in acknowledgment. "I will rest," he told her.

"You had better, my lad," she said, pulling upon his ear affectionately. She then collected Frerin (despite his complaints) and the starlight swallowed them both.

Finally, as dawn neared, Aragorn stepped forward and drew Legolas aside. "What troubles you?" he asked. "Ci vêr ? You have not seemed yourself ever since we took the Dark Door. That would unsettle the staunchest heart, but the Paths did not seem to haunt you as they did our Dwarf…"

Legolas stepped swiftly towards the ranger, his unmoving expression somewhat unnerving. "Why does Gimli believe he will be the instrument of my death?"

Aragorn frowned, and then his face paled. "What?"

Legolas did not repeat himself, but simply fixed Aragorn with that strange and piercing Elven stare.

"When do we leave, Aragorn?" called Elrohir. "The sun will rise in moments!"

"Ready the horses," Aragorn called back, and then he gripped Legolas' shoulder and said low and fervent, "I am the author of this, and I am sorry. I spoke of Arwen to him."

Legolas' brow creased the faintest amount. "Of the Evenstar? But I am no Peredhil."

The dawn's light spilled over the lip of the horizon, and Aragorn squinted into it, before patting Legolas' shoulder once. "This day will end in a red sunset," he muttered. "We ride to battle. Do not let my ill-timed words put you apart, not when peril faces us and bloodshed beckons. Make peace, and more than peace! Ai, I am weary of watching you circle endlessly!"

Legolas shook his head. "Aragorn, what…"

But the ranger was off, his long legs striding back to where Elrohir had Brego saddled and ready.

"Wake, my star," said Thorin and crouched down by Gimli's head. "The ride continues."

Gimli blinked, and then sat up in his blankets. "Ahh," he groaned and palmed his face. His beard was a shambles, and he scratched at his belly as he yawned. "That light is fierce! And did yesterday truly happen? I cannot fathom it – from such terror to such anger to such joy. I feel as though I have been pummelled relentlessly, and yet the true battle has not even begun."

"Do you forgive me yet, Gimli?"

Gimli peered at him from over his hands. "Not especially forgivin' first thing in the morning, if you'll pardon me, my Lord," he said dryly. "But I suppose I must. As my uncle pointed out, you are my King."

Thorin sat down at Gimli's side and leaned his forearms upon his knees. "I was not. Dáin is your King, and a fine one he makes."

Gimli laughed. "Haven't you heard? They change every so often. And Aragorn's my King too. I can have as many as I like. There's a surplus of them around here, after all. Why, wasn't that Thrór I saw last night standing beside my cousins?"

Thorin smiled. "Thank you, Gimli."

"Don't thank me yet. This will be an uncomfortable conversation, an' I'm not letting you slip away. Not after that stunt you pulled."

"Hah." Thorin's smile would not budge. Always there was this, Gimli's great gift to him: laughter and a lighter heart. "I am justly punished, then."

"Nnnngh." Gimli flopped back onto his bedroll and rubbed his eyes some more. "And the air still stinks of those unliving foul traitors. Well, I must drink the cup I have poured for myself, I suppose. I should not be wroth with you for stirring it."

"You should reach Anduin soon." Thorin said, and watched as Gimli stretched like a lazy lion. "And your hair is atrocious."

"I'm sure the Orcs and ghouls won't care," Gimli grumbled, but he did make an effort to tame the bright red frizz of his hair into a warrior's queue.

"You are making a mess of it," Thorin commented.

"Oh, hush yourself," Gimli muttered, and craned his neck to the other side to collect the lock that was coming astray. The wind blew it this way and that.

"Here," said a sudden light voice, and Legolas stepped forward and laid his hands over Gimli's. "May I?"

Gimli froze.

Thorin froze.

"Perhaps you should leave after all," Gimli said in an undertone.

"Not for all the gems in Erebor," Thorin said with no little satisfaction. "Not even for the Arkenstone itself."

Gimli's hands slowly descended, and Thorin could see their thick fingers trembling slightly. "Do as you will," Gimli eventually said to the Elf, and Legolas frowned.

"Do I overstep?"

"Yes, you do," Gimli said in a quiet voice. "But I would welcome it."

Legolas paused a moment, his hands still but lightly touching Gimli's vibrant, crinkled hair. Then he folded his legs beneath him, moving deliberately and calmly as though he were settling down upon an airy Elven talan and not the hard, cold ground, and began to separate the strands for the long, tight barrel-plait.

Gimli's face was a study in itself. Thorin found he could not look at him long. His cheeks were flushed and his ears were a red nearly as bright as his hair, but his lips were drawn and thin.

"Why must I die to love you?" Legolas said, soft as the air that whispered through the Vale.

"Why must you be an Elf?" Gimli replied, just as soft.

"For the same reason you must be a Dwarf: that is who I am."

"It cannot be. Not for your life. Aragorn told me."

Legolas gently wound one of Gimli's clasps around the thick braid, and continued to work down the length of the hair. His long fingers flew, nimble and practised. They seemed oddly lingering as they slid through that coarse and bristly Dwarven mane. "I have spoken to Aragorn. He tells me this is his doing. Why then – what did he tell you?"

Gimli closed his eyes and sat silent for a moment, and then he said, "Elves may die of love."

Legolas continued working, and around them the Dúnedain packed away the camp as though they were moving upon a different world – as though they occupied the same shadow space as Thorin, watching forever removed from this oddly private, intimate moment. The anger lay banked, cooled for the moment but not put aside. This odd, dreamlike peace had replaced it: the hush before the thunderclap shatters the air.

"Aye," Legolas said after the moment had stretched until nigh breaking. "We may. It is rare, but we may."

Gimli said nothing.

"You would have removed my choice, then?" Legolas said, still soft, and he wound another clasp around the braid, nearer the midpoint of the length, cinching it in. "You would have me suffer and wane?"

"If you do not…" Gimli said, and stopped. He gnawed on his lip for a pause, and then said, "if you do not love me, then you do not die. I would not have you die, Legolas. You will not die. I could not bear it."

"You do not have the right to tell me so," Legolas murmured. "You cannot order my heart to do as you would have it do. Ah, a brave soul, unselfish but arrogant are you! If I die then so I die, and I do so with a song upon my lips. But you do not choose yea or nay. Only I may do so. And I have."

Gimli let out a sound as though he had been punched. "Oh, Legolas, sanmelekuh, âzyungeluh… birashagimi, birashagimi!"

"I would yearn, Gimli," said Legolas, and he pulled the great mass of fiery red together to form the last section of the braid. "I would lie my head down and weep for what has never been. I would long and long for you, and in the longing would be the bitter knowledge that you had foreseen this and done nothing."

"That is not so," Gimli managed, but Legolas tugged upon the braid once – a warning: be silent.

"Too, I would lie there and know that I died for a dream," Legolas said. "I would much prefer living it."

"But I am a Dwarf, Legolas! I am _mortal!"_

"Yes, you are." Legolas fastened the last clasp, and then smoothed his hand down the heavy, thick braid: dull without oil, and no doubt dry and strawlike from rough conditions. "You are very mortal, and you are every inch of you a Dwarf."

"And when I go?" Gimli said, and he took one deep gulping breath, then another. "What of you? What then?"

"Then we shall see," Legolas said serenely. "I do not know the future, Gimli – I am not Lord Elrond. These things are not certain, the risk is there, surely, but it is not inevitable. It is no more certain than survival in a battle, and we have now seen many and more to follow. I will say this, though: I would prefer to breathe my last knowing what it is to love, rather than die wishing for a never-was."

Gimli winced. "I… did not understand."

"You should have asked."

"You disappeared!"

"You should have found me, bothersome Dwarf," Legolas breathed, and he laid his face against the braid he had woven. "You should have found me."

Gimli's hand fumbled over his shoulder, and Legolas took it and held on. "And mortal grief? What of that? You feared it so, in the fields of Rohan. And now I will be its author. How do you expect me to bear this guilt?"

"If mortal grief should take me when the mortal gift takes you," said Legolas, and he squeezed Gimli's hand, "then that is the way of it. But I would have a light to hold against the darkness. I would have a memory of joy to carry with me against the tide of sorrow. Aragorn speaks with the tongue of his own guilt, but there is no need for it. Elves love where they will, and the gift is not one that is given lightly. Arwen has made her choice, and so will I."

"The Evenstar can live as a mortal, thanks to the choice of her half-elven blood," said Gimli. "Or so says Aragorn. She will not be forced to endure for long ages after he is gone to the stone!"

"Cold ages, lonely ages with no memory of fire or warmth." Legolas stood in one swift motion and moved to stand before Gimli, slim and fierce-eyed and proud. "Gimli, Glóin's son, do you love me?"

Gimli gazed up at Legolas, and Thorin had never seen him look so lost, or so utterly, profoundly adoring. "Must I say so?"

"Aye, you must," said Legolas. "In this, Gimli, you must learn to do as Elves do. This is the present, and time will run in its furrow no matter what we do. When all of Middle-Earth is poised upon the precipice and hope is held in the hands of Hobbits, what is the difference between Elf and Dwarf then? Neither of us may see the next sun rise."

"You would bind yourself to a doddering old Dwarf, wiping his chin and rubbing his aching feet?" Gimli shook his head. "No. _No."_

Legolas, amazingly, laughed. "The seasons will turn and you will age and I will not, and I will love you. The trees will turn red and gold and your hair will turn silver, and I will love you. Your eyes will dim and your legs ache, and your mighty strength will begin to wane and I will yet love you. Do you mean to frighten me away with the truth of aging? Gimli. I am not afraid, and I love you. Do you love me?"

Gimli hesitated, and then put his head in his hands. "Yes," he said, muffled, before taking a dragging, shuddering breath. "Yes. You are my Sanâzyung. I love you. I love you, Legolas of the Greenwood. With everything I am."

Smiling, Legolas knelt before him and took his great broad hands from his face and kissed the back of one, so slowly, so softly. "Good," he whispered. "Good."

Thorin let out an explosive breath. "Durin's beard and balls, finally!" he growled, and let the stars of Gimlîn-zâram bear him away.

(He didn't actually _intend_ for the small jig to escape as he left, but some things cannot be helped.)

* * *

[](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/)  
by [FlukeofFate](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com)

  
by [valveillen](http://valveillen.tumblr.com/post/107975388197/sansukh-chapter33-art)

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Gerich 'ûn sui raw, estelion allen – you have a heart like a lion, I trust in you  
> Nin gwerianneg – you betrayed me!  
> Ci vêr – are you well?  
> Prestad? – (is there) trouble?  
> Baw, avaro naeth – no, don't worry  
> Gwaem – let's go  
> Û - No  
> Peredhil - Half-elven  
> Ú-iston - I don't know
> 
>    
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  girdîn, girdînel, gerdar! – Terror-place, the most terrible place, supreme terror!  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Nadad – brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Gimli – star  
> Birashagimi – I'm sorry (literally, "I regret")  
> Irrîn – Horror-place  
> Sanmelekuh – My Perfect (true/pure) half  
> Âzyungeluh – my love of loves  
> azaghâl belkul – mighty warrior  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu – my fiery son of the heart  
> Sanâzyung – Pure/perfect love  
> Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu – my fiery son of the heart  
> Shândabi – agreed  
> 'ikhuzh – stop  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Unkhash – the greatest sorrow  
> Lalâkh - fools!  
> Lalâkhel! - Fools of all fools!
> 
> Some lines taken from the films and from the chapters 'The Passing of the Grey Company,' and 'The Muster of Rohan'.
> 
> The Half-Elven: Unlike other Elves, the Half-Elven were able to choose their fates. They could be counted amongst the Elven Firstborn (Elrond chose this path) or amongst the Secondborn, Men (his brother Elros chose this path, and became the first High King of Númenor). The children of Elrond are also granted this choice. Arwen has chosen a mortal life.
> 
> "Fading" vs "Dying of grief" - these describe the two different ways Tolkien's Elves may perish apart from grievous injury or harm. Elves do not fade when they are dying of grief or love. Instead they lie down and their soul departs their body, which remains young and unchanged. "Fading" refers to when an Elf becomes so old that they literally start to fade - they slowly grow transparent until they disappear entirely. This is, in my opinion, awesomely creepy. :)
> 
> The skeleton lying at the door upon the Paths of the Dead is that of the Prince of Rohan, Baldor, who in TA 2569 (nearly 450 years ago) vowed to walk the Paths. He never returned, and his father King Brego died a year later of grief.
> 
> Everybody has a lot of _feelings,_ oh my god, this chapter has been brought to you by so MANY FEELINGS ~~and Thorin Oakenshield as Captain of the good ship SS Gigolas ahahahah~~
> 
>  
> 
> AND NOW ANOTHER COMIC  
> By [scaggles](http://scaggles.tumblr.com/post/107860492939/when-that-one-fic-about-your-otp-updated)! 
> 
> **When that ONE fic about your OTP updated**
> 
>   
>    
>  [Click here for the rest!](http://scaggles.tumblr.com/post/107860492939/when-that-one-fic-about-your-otp-updated)   
> 


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All! Thank you SO MUCH for all your amazing support. You are all gems. Especial thanks to Jeza-Red and sutoribenda. *huuuugs*
> 
> I am currently editing the entirety of this monster to insert hover-text for translations. I have already done this chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> I am calling this The Chapter Of POVs Other Than Thorin's. :D
> 
>  **Art and Artiness**  
> [The Mighty Mighty Sansukh Masterpost](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-masterpost)  
>  THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH. I can NEVER express how much it means to me. 
> 
> Chess-ka: [Ori and Bifur](http://chess-ka.tumblr.com/post/109138789366/redoing-some-old-art-i-have-only-got-one-ship-in)  
> Flukeoffate: [Bomfris and Gimris](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/108869635185/bomfris-and-gimris-by-flukeoffate)  
> Flukeoffate: [The Confession (chapter 33)](http://flukeoffateart.tumblr.com/post/108019792520/the-confession-by-flukeoffate)  
> mintehz: [Gimli and Legolas, Chapter 33](http://mintehz.tumblr.com/post/108936487237/scene-from-chapter-33-of-sansukh-flipping-such-an)  
> Aviva0017: [Jeri child of Beri](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/108284644977/jeri-child-of-beri-more-sansukh-art-whos)  
> gamcrackers: [FINALLY! Chapter 33](http://gamcrackers.tumblr.com/post/108216458693/same-thorin-same-determamfidd-check-her)  
> nonbinaryschminary: [Jeri child of Beri](http://nonbinaryschminary.tumblr.com/post/108030581086/ok-im-a-giant-nerd-and-so-drew-jeri-the-non-binary)  
> valveillen: [Legolas, the kiss](http://valveillen.tumblr.com/post/107975388197/sansukh-chapter33-art)  
> evil-bones-mccoy: [Film poster for Sansukh](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/post/107973475509/in-the-dark-i-hear-a-call-calling-me-there-i-will)
> 
> AGAIN THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH. If I have missed anything, pleasepleaseplease let me know!

Bilbo blinked awake. Surely he had only nodded off for a second? Damnation. Where was his book? It had been on his lap only moments ago.

"If you've taken it again, Erestor," he said crossly, and then he blinked as he registered his voice; no longer cracked and halting, he sounded clear and quick and exceedingly annoyed.

So. It was the dream again, the one he could never quite remember when he was awake. He looked down at his young, unlined hands, and then ran them over his face. Supple skin greeted his fingertips, without the dry looseness of age. It was not terribly bright, wherever he was, and he peered around. He was sitting on some description of dresser, and the air felt close and warm and comforting.

There was a groan from his left.

Bilbo whipped his head around, his tawny curls bouncing along the edge of his vision. There was a pallet tucked against the side of the room, piled with a couple of well-worn, handmade blankets and a thick black fur at the end. He could barely make out the figure buried beneath all those coverings.

He frowned as a pair of large, square hands poked out from beneath the blankets, curling into the air as whomever it was stretched rather extensively. The person (persons?) gave another, rather appreciative groan, and then there was the sound of fingers rasping against hair-covered skin. Scratching? Most likely.

And then Bilbo's eyebrows shot up as Thorin Oakenshield, naked to his waist and with the messiest hair that Bilbo had ever seen, sat up in the pallet and wiped down his face. He yawned, and Bilbo could have counted every tooth in his head. "Should have said something sooner, foolish star of mine," he mumbled in a rather gravelly, satisfied sort of voice, still scratching at his stomach absently. He looked tremendously pleased about something.

 _Oh, hells._ Bilbo did not know where to put his face. _Not this, not now, not him!_ Thorin was swinging his legs out from under his blankets, still half-asleep, and obviously getting ready to rise. Bilbo could feel his ears beginning to burn, and he knew his whole face was red as a beet.

It all came flooding back: standing in the sunlit glades of Rivendell and staring at his own face, wizened nearly beyond recognition. Learning that these little daydreams of his were rather more than just daydreams. Finding out that _ghosts_ , as improbable as that sounded, were much, much more than the superstitious fancies of frightened children and the credulous.

Discovering that this pompous regal _intolerably rude_ fool had been stalking him for eighty years!

The moment Thorin noticed him was obvious, as he froze so thoroughly he might as well have been made of stone after all.

"Must you continually parade around half naked?" Bilbo snapped, and he folded his arms and pointedly looked away. Confounded, _confounded_ attractive Dwarf.

Thorin's eyes darted down to his lap, where the blanket was still curled. "I have a blanket."

  


Thorin and Bilbo, by [ lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/116286513361/and-then-bilbos-eyebrows-shot-up-as-thorin)

  


"Is that really all you can say?" Bilbo's ears twitched in irritation, and he turned his eyes to the ceiling. It looked oddly unfamiliar, though he couldn't put his finger on why. "Get out. I have nothing to say to you."

"Bilbo," said Thorin slowly, and Bilbo's nostrils flared. "Master Baggins," he hastily corrected himself.

"Didn't you hear me?" Bilbo said, glaring up some more. He wasn't about to look at that ridiculous Dwarf and hear his ridiculous excuses. No thank you! "I said that I had nothing – less than nothing! – to say to you, so if you please, good morning and get! _out_!"

"I hear you, Master Baggins. I will leave you, then," Thorin said, low and deferent. "If I may dress, I will be on my way. I would not stay to cause you grief."

"Cause me – oh you, you _confounded_ - _"_ Bilbo spluttered, and his hands fisted upon his upper arms. "Would you kindly just remove yourself? I was perfectly fine until you saw fit to intrude upon me, lying there unwrapped like a peeled orange, asleep and in my bedroom no less! I shall-"

"Bilbo," Thorin said slowly, and then he seemed to hesitate, as though annoyed with himself for interrupting. "I am sorry, I am sorry for speaking out of turn, but – you are in my rooms. Did you not realise?"

That caused Bilbo's eyes to snap back to Thorin, wide with surprise. "Your rooms? Wait, but how is that possible?"

Bilbo's eyes were level with his, at this angle, and he was actually looking straight into Thorin's face. The Dwarf appeared much as he had before, nigh-precisely the same in fact. As though all those years had never happened. "I do not know," he told him, and Bilbo flushed again and looked away.

Now that he actually paid a little more attention, it was obvious that this was nothing like Rivendell. The angles were those starkly geometric shapes he associated with Dwarvish art, and there wasn't a skerrick of greenery to be seen. It wasn't nearly as grand as he had assumed, either: small and cramped and rather bare of decoration. The walls were of some sort of greyish stone, shot through with black shiny flecks, like certain marbles he remembered from a distant hazy childhood.

"Well then," Bilbo said, and he cleared his throat. "It would appear that I am the presumptuous one - for once."

"Presume away," Thorin said, and he leaned his elbows upon his knees and looked down at his bare feet. "I will not stop you. I welcome you."

Oh for - ! "That was not a prompt for some silly invitation to visit, you great galumphing idiot," Bilbo said, rather coldly. "That was the perfect opportunity for you to apologise for all your spying and sneaking. One which you missed, naturally."

"Ah." Thorin's madly snarled hair fell over his face, which was touched with the faintest hint of red. "My sincerest apologies, Master Baggins. I have intruded upon you in a most grievous fashion, and I am most heartily sorry."

"Goodness, you do apologise prettily when you put your mind to it, don't you?" Bilbo sniped, and Thorin looked up.

"I am sorry," he said, plainly and without any artifice or guardedness.

Bilbo pursed his lips. "Don't think I'm forgiving you!" he said, and wagged a finger threateningly. At all that - that Dwarvishness, and muscles, and shoulders, and soft-looking, grippable hair - _stop it._ "Because I am very, very angry. _Very_ angry, and about lots of things, not just being spied upon, and – oh, please put a shirt on, I can't talk to you like this!"

Thorin blinked, and then fisted his blanket around his hips and stood. "Very well, I will…"

Acres of skin lightly dusted with hair, and tattooed arms and no, no, oh nonononono. Bilbo gritted his teeth and his eyes snapped back up to the ceiling. "Oh, _drat it all."_

Thorin evidently decided not to inquire after the matter, showing some discretion at _last._ Bilbo glared up at the ceiling as he heard the other moving around the room, evidently dressing as quickly as possible.

Though to be fair, perhaps Bilbo should watch Thorin dress in turn? Who knew what the bloody arrogant nuisance had gotten up to, sneaking and poking his overlarge Dwarvish nose into Bilbo's business without so much as a by-your-leave? Was there a single thing about Bilbo's life that was not an open book to Thorin? Was he permitted no secrets at all?

He fumed silently for a moment, and then another groan caused his eyes to flick back to see Thorin struggling with a blue tunic. His sleep-crazed hair had become half-caught in the neck of the tunic, half-all over his face. It was such a departure from the Thorin Oakenshield that Bilbo had known that he couldn't help staring.

And then the Dwarf, evidently rather embarrassed by his recalcitrant mop, grabbed the brush from the dresser. The dresser that Bilbo was seated upon. His hand passed straight through the Hobbit's _leg!_

Bilbo's eyebrows shot back up to his hairline, and he could feel his face falling into its most Baggins expression as Thorin slowly turned back to look at him. "Again, my apologies," he managed.

"You are not making a terribly good fist of this, are you," Bilbo said, and it was not a question. Thorin winced, making no effort to hide it, and he sat back upon his pallet and fiddled with the brush in his hands.

"Apparently not," he said ruefully.

"Dwarves," Bilbo sighed.

Thorin made no effort to move, seated upon his bed with a hastily-donned tunic sitting crookedly upon his shoulders, his hair a riot and his face full of chagrin. Bilbo briefly debated simply leaving the stubborn rude thing to his glowering and brooding, but something stopped him.

Thorin was different. Something about him… was different.

Bilbo had clung to his memories as hard as he could even as they slipped away, and those of Thorin had been the dearest and most painful of all. He had kept them squirrelled away as though pressed between fine paper. He had guarded them as closely as a dragon does his treasure. He had held them secret and private for all these years, more precious and more perilous than any ring.

He had thought he had understood everything there was of Thorin Oakenshield; noble, determined, arrogant, obsessive, stately and imposing Thorin Oakenshield, who could make Laketown rags seem like silks and velvets. Thorin Oakenshield, who had changed before Bilbo's eyes once before and not for the better.

But this Thorin just sat there, without any pretence at stateliness. He was not in the slightest bit imposing. Just a Dwarf after all. He simply sat there and waited, with hair asunder, legs bare beneath his crinkled tunic and beard mussed from the pillow. Calm contrition was written into every line of his face.

Bilbo had never associated _patience_ with Thorin before - nor humility.

It piqued his interest. It intrigued him.

"Oh, fine," he muttered to himself, and slid down from the dresser.

Thorin looked up as Bilbo came to a halt before him. He swallowed at the flicker of hope in Thorin's eyes, so at odds with his resigned expression. "So," he said, and stifled the urge to fidget and the sudden surge of self-consciousness. Goodness, how absurd this all was! "These are your rooms? Where, exactly?"

"I am dead, Bil-Master Baggins," said Thorin gently, and Bilbo huffed.

"Yes, I know _that._ I'm not an imbecile, just a bit forgetful. It isn't my fault I can never remember these silly dreams when I wake. So. Where am I? I feel it's only polite to let me know where it is I keep ending up."

"These are the Halls of Mahal," Thorin told him, and he kept his eyes on the brush between his hands, leaning his elbows upon his knees. Bilbo frowned, scraping at his unreliable memory.

"Mahal, I've heard you lot say that name before," he said, and he tapped at his lip with a finger.

Thorin's face did not move, but his eyes smiled and Bilbo squashed the little leap in his belly at the sight. _Stop it!_ "No doubt you have," he said. "Mahal is the one you call Aulë. He is our Maker, the father of all Dwarves."

"Oh." Bilbo fell silent. "Your room?"

"Aye."

"It's… plainer than I would have expected," Bilbo said, and he took the opportunity to look around himself more thoroughly. It was bare indeed, nothing like the rooms of a king. Thorin apparently lived plainly in his afterlife. A pallet, heaped high with rushes, that mountain of blankets, the fur for his feet. A chest, wooden and plain, for clothes perhaps. A desk with a few papers stacked upon it in a small pile. A dresser, the brass mirror embossed around the edges with primroses and honeysuckle. How… undwarven. A wooden tray filled with beads and cuffs, all gleaming with the dull grey sheen of steel. Boots by the door – urgh, why would any folk wear such things – and clothes scattered by a roughly-woven basket where they had fallen. A heavy rasp, sitting over upon the desk where it should not be. What was a tool such as that doing in a sleeproom? Tsk. "I should think my little corner of Rivendell is a palace compared to this."

Thorin's back straightened slightly, and there was a noticeable stiffness in his voice as he said, "I have found I care little for riches now. I will not have them near me. Never again. Not ever."

"Yes, I suppose so," Bilbo said distractedly, and then the words sunk in and he turned to Thorin with a frown. "Oh, surely you're not still afraid of-"

Thorin sat as still as stone.

"Oh." Bilbo shrank a little, shoulders falling. "Oh."

"I am sorry," Thorin said again, and the words sounded hard and stubborn in his mouth this time. "I will go."

Oh. Well, wasn't that what Bilbo wanted? For this snooping, sneaking little spy to leave him alone?

The Tookish part of Bilbo whispered, " _liar."_

 _Hush,_ Bilbo told it firmly. _If it weren't for you, we wouldn't be in this pickle in the first place._

_You want to know why he's so different. Why he has watched you, above all creatures. Why he has been so deplorably rude._

Bilbo was no better at resisting temptation than he had been at fifty. He sighed and sat down beside Thorin. "No – no, don't," he said, and he laced his fingers together to stop their twitching and looked down at them and decidedly _not_ at Thorin. "Come now, I wouldn't chase you out of your own room!"

"But you would chase me from yours, and so I will leave you in peace, Master Burglar," Thorin said, and he made to stand.

"Well, if I did everything you did to me back to you in return, we would have another eighty years on our hands and we would have to find some battlements," Bilbo snapped. "Sit down."

Blast. His tongue had always been a little too sharp. He braced himself for Thorin's anger, but it never came. Instead, acceptance and remorse shone in Thorin's face, and he remained calm as he sagged back down.

So changed! How had he changed so thoroughly? Why wouldn't he roar at Bilbo? Where was that simmering undercurrent of resentment that had always lurked beneath his dignified demeanour; that air of terrible tragedy and vengeance unanswered?

The Dwarf's eyes flicked to Bilbo, and then refocused straight ahead. "I…"

"If you say you are sorry once more, I will leave and not come back." Bilbo emphatically thrust a finger into the air. "Not until I've had some answers, and given you a piece or two of my mind! _Then_ I'll hear your pretty apologies, and not before."

Thorin opened his mouth, and at Bilbo's furious look, he shut it again.

"Also, you look like a shaggy pony, put that brush to good use." Bilbo sniffed and folded his arms. "Go on."

Thorin sent him a sidelong glance, and several expressions flew over his face, ranging from the angry to the bitter to the mildly amused. But he did not say a word. Instead, he lifted his brush to drag it through the thick, tangled mess of his hair, wincing as it snagged.

"Right, now that you're usefully occupied," Bilbo muttered, slightly taken aback. His prodding had yielded a result, but not the explosion he had expected. So Thorin was not entirely different then: there had been annoyance and anger there. He still had plenty of his vaunted pride, but it did not seem to overcome his reason any more.

The Hobbit resettled himself more comfortably and turned slightly towards Thorin. "I have questions. No, don't talk yet!"

Thorin bit down hard upon his lower lip.

"I want answers, not reasons. Do you understand me?"

"Aye."

"Good." Bilbo harrumphed a little and kicked his furry heels for a moment, his stomach full of butterflies all of a sudden. Now that the answers were here at long last, he did not know if he wanted them.

Stalling, Bilbo cast about for something to say, anything at all. His roving gaze fell upon a hairy, naked Dwarven leg and he blushed reflexively, before he blinked at the sight of those squat, hairless, stub-toed feet. He couldn't help but blurt, "your feet are ridiculous. Not a curl at all. I've known tiny babies with more hair on their toes."

"Is this a question?" Thorin's mouth was twitching. Confounded, dratted Dwarf.

"Just an observation," Bilbo said loftily, and he snorted when Thorin looked askance at him. "First question: why have you been spying on me? And I use the word _spying_ advisedly. Mostly because I am trying very hard not to use the word _haunting,_ as appropriate as it might seem. Well?"

Thorin was quiet as he mulled that over for a moment. "Master Baggins," he began, and then took a breath. "Because I hurt you, and I left you alone. Because I love you, and I think you – forgive me – I think you cared for me. Because I must make my amends, for all the wickedness and pain and peril I brought upon you. And because… because I enjoyed it. Because I wanted to be near you."

His eyes slid shut. "It made me happy."

Bilbo felt as though he had been struck by lightning. A churning feeling had begun in his belly, stirring the butterflies about in quite an unpleasant manner. He licked his lips, and then licked them again.

Well.

Made him happy, he growled to himself, even as a small voice in the back of his head began to gabble, _because I love you, because love, I love you, loveyou, becauseiloveyou;_ Oh, it made him happy, did it, to pry into Bilbo's life as though he had the right to it! It made him happy to call Bilbo _his,_ like a pet?

How _dare_ –

_\- I think – forgive me – I think you cared for me._

As though that mattered a jot! Didn't even ask! Didn't even – of all the _arrogance!_

Thorin looked up, and worry flashed in those pale eyes. "Bilbo?"

"Don't," Bilbo hissed.

Thorin swallowed his words, and bent his head.

"Do you…" Bilbo's voice cracked, and he worked furiously to clear his suspiciously blurry eyes for a moment, "do you know, I had forgotten what you could be like when you thought you knew best?"

Thorin remained silent.

Bilbo took a deep, shuddering breath, and tipped back his head. "You stupid Dwarf," he said. "Well, at least this time you're not throwing yourself headlong into certain danger. Just headlong into my privacy."

Thorin quietly put his brush aside, and slowly stood once more. "I will leave you to your peace," he said, and he could not meet Bilbo's gaze.

"Sit," Bilbo said, as sharp as the crack of a whip.

Thorin sat.

"I am _furious_ with you," Bilbo said, and he turned to skewer Thorin with his glare. The mess in his stomach had caught fire. "Let's put aside your presumption and your snooping and your arrogance for one second, shall we? I was not alone because of pining after you, you great daft dead fool. I was alone because I wished to be. And yes, I care – cared for you," and he skipped as quickly as he could over those words. They felt unstable, like quicksand, and he rushed on: "but I like to _know_ when I have company, no matter who they might be! Surely the night of our meeting proved that? I had no way of saying _yes, come in and welcome,_ oh no, I didn't even get a choice: you just barged on ahead like Dwarves always do. I thought I was alone, Thorin! And now I find that I have never truly been alone at all. My whole life long, my privacy has been of no consequence to you. My wishes have meant nothing to you. You had no right!"

Thorin looked rather pale, but he sat and listened, breath coming faster. "Bilbo, I-"

"But you thought best, of course!" Bilbo threw up his hands. "And to top it off, you call me yours – as though you own me, as though you carried the deed to my life in your pocket!"

Thorin made a distressed sound of disagreement, deep in his throat, but Bilbo plowed ahead without allowing him the chance to interrupt:

"Oh, and let's examine that earlier little gem of an argument, shall we? That you must make your amends. Amends how? By turning me into a spectacle for your amusement?"

"No!" Thorin half-roared, "never that!"

"Then how, pray tell?" Bilbo scowled at him, though there was a small part of him that was rather relieved that Thorin could still lose his composure somewhat.

"I-I was given a gift," he said, and Bilbo watched as he shuddered and took a breath, calming himself down rather more rapidly than he had ever seen before. "I may reach the subconscious mind of my listener in the living world. I have tried to speak to you many times. Sometimes this young self – your subconscious self – listens. Your older self barely senses me at all."

"And you never thought to tell _this_ me," Bilbo tipped his head, and raised his eyebrows in challenge. "I do not recall anything like that happening."

"I thought you were my loneliness, given shape and speech." Thorin sighed. "I am not well-versed in matters such as these, and my mind has proved a traitor to me before."

 _Ohhhhhh_. A small sprout of pity began to uncurl in Bilbo's chest, and he cleared his throat. _That… explains quite a bit._ "Oh. Oh, I see. Well, that makes some sort of sense, I suppose." Bilbo worried at his lower lip.

He'd be damned if he apologised, however! Insolent dwarf. Just because he was lonely didn't give him the right to fossick through other people's privacy without permission. "These amends, then…"

"For how I treated you," Thorin clarified. "For causing you such terror, for drawing you into the spiral of my ever-widening madness and paranoia. For my cruelty. For-"

"Yes, yes, I remember, I was there," Bilbo said crossly. Would Thorin kindly stop prodding at all his long-nursed and bottled-up feelings? Oh, why had he asked for answers! Bother, bother, _bother_. "And we will talk about that, mark my words:-" _over my dead body,_ "- but what do you mean by amends?"

"I swore to protect you." Thorin gave a half-shrug, and then let his shoulder fall. "And when you appeared to be safe beyond my aid, living in Elrond's house, I watched over Frodo and the Fellowship in your stead. I have guarded their steps. Every Dwarf in my family and of the Company is working day and night, reporting upon the War."

Ice slid down his spine. Bilbo's eyes widened. "What? Is Frodo alive? Is he all right? Is he eating?"

"He lives," Thorin nodded, and turned more fully towards Bilbo. "He lives. The burden grows heavier, but he moves ever-closer to the fire every day. My last report had them upon something called the 'stairs of Cirith Ungol', upon the borders of Mordor."

Bilbo's hand flew to his mouth. "Oh my lad," he whispered, horror-struck.

Thorin appeared to be steeling himself to say something unpleasant. _More_ unpleasant. "He has conscripted a guide."

"A guide?"

"Gollum."

Bilbo could feel his entire face crumpling, and a low whine escaped his mouth. "Oh no," he breathed.

"I am so sorry," Thorin said, low.

"Frodo, oh my Frodo-lad," Bilbo mourned. "How can you protect him in Mordor? How can you protect him from that slimy vile little beast? How can you protect him from the creeping horror that is that damned, cursed Ring? How can any?"

"Be comforted," Thorin said, and then grimaced at the uselessness of the words. "Frodo hears me now and then, as does Sam. It is more difficult now that Gimli is not with him, of course."

Why, what had happened? He vaguely remembered the short-tempered, red-headed Dwarf from the Council, so very like Glóin. Was he not with the Fellowship? "What happened to him?" Bilbo sniffed and wiped at his nose. "Did he…?"

"Nay, he lives." Thorin's head lowered, and he seemed to be oddly grieved. "All the Fellowship is sundered, but they all still live save one. Boromir."

 _Oh gracious, he scared me then._ Bilbo sagged in relief, and then winced. "Oh, I am sorry…"

"No, it is understandable. I grew to know them all well, where you only know your kin." He gave Bilbo a small smile. "Your cousin Pippin is like you in many ways."

"Balderdash. Wash out your mouth. He's a Took," Bilbo scoffed.

"So are you." Thorin raised his brows.

Was there a single, solitary thing about his life that Thorin had not sifted his way through? He probably knew the names of each and every of Bilbo's various neighbours and relations, and which of his tomato plants was the best producer, the appalling busybody. "Disrespectful, invasive, egotistical, stone-headed, nosy _dwarves,_ " Bilbo muttered, and he wiped at his nose again. "I should hover here all day, give you a taste of your own medicine."

"As I said, I welcome you." Thorin inclined his head. "You have my permission to come and go as you please, without reservation. I am truly sorry that I never sought the same from you. For my presumption, Master Baggins, I will happily suffer any punishment you see fit to mete out."

"Punishment!" Bilbo blinked, and then he frowned in thought. "Wait, you think I wish to punish you?"

"Why not?" Thorin said, surprised.

"Oh for…" Bilbo shook his head. "Really? I am angry, but I don't want to hurt you, you stubborn idiot creature."

"I betrayed your trust," Thorin objected, and Bilbo snorted again.

"Ah, but not before I betrayed yours, and so we are even. No punishment required."

"Even," said Thorin, flatly. "Bilbo, I isolated you from my Company, I poured my venom into your ears, I held my hands around your neck and tried to throttle you. I have tried to throw you from the walls of Erebor. I led you into a hopeless battle and took away any joy you felt in your own home. Erebor stands in Dwarven hands thanks to you: my dearest, fondest dream in life. Now I understand that I have also taken your privacy from you and assumed a level of care that – no, Bilbo we will never be even. I owe you too much for that!"

Bilbo ignored the laundry list of deeds and wrongdoings: it was no more than he'd said to himself for nearly eighty years after all. His own wrongdoings were worse, and with less cause. Frodo, ah, Frodo.

But – assumed a level of care? Hadn't Bilbo proven himself, proven that he cared, over and over? Hadn't he?

So much for his buried emotions, for his long-nursed resentments and affections. Bilbo's ears flashed red-hot, and he could feel his anger rising up in his belly to crowd into his mouth. "Assumed a level of," he spluttered, and he hopped down from the pallet to stand over Thorin. Part of him stood back and shook its head at his audacity, but the rest of him was riding the crest of a building wave of outrage. "Excuse me, Thorin so-called-bloody Oakenshield, are you doubting me? _Doubting_ me?"

"I would never doubt you, not ever again. I-"

"Who got your miserable hairy arse out of Mirkwood, hm?" Bilbo snapped. The same foolhardy impulse that had once pushed him into squaring up to dragons and pickpocketing trolls and stealing priceless royal heirlooms now loosened his tongue. "Who stopped that orc from chopping your rock-filled head off? Who stayed by you and tried to get you to eat, down in that filthy pile of lizard-infected gold? Who was it that threw away all hope of your good opinion for the chance to save your sorry hide? Me, that's who, and I'll thank you not to doubt my 'level of care' ever again. The cheek of it!"

"I know – Bilbo, I know you did, and I can never…" Thorin rubbed his eyes with his fists and groaned. "I cannot repay you. Never. I owe you all, and I would not dare doubt you. But. I _hurt_ you."

"Yes, you hurt me, and yes, I am angry about it," Bilbo fumed. "But are you honestly suggesting that I never hurt you?"

"I…"

"Because I remember tears in your eyes, Thorin Oakenshield, and they haunted me more than your ghost ever did," Bilbo hissed.

"You never raised your hand in anger to me, even when I lay under the spell of the gold," Thorin said hotly, and he shook his head. "No. Bilbo, no: that is not the same - and you know it!"

The stone walls rang with his last words.

 _Still rather good at getting to the point. Still rather good at speeches, too._ Bilbo tried to get himself under control, but it was a dismal failure. He had repressed everything for so long. Of course, Thorin _bloody_ Oakenshield only had to speak, and his careful dam was breached. Now? Now it had broken its bonds and was all bubbling up in great welling floods. Everything he had kept locked away for seventy-eight long years had come spilling out: anger, hurt and resentment keened in his ears. The private, unspoken little warmth and the bone-deep decades-old yearning hammered in his heart.

He closed his eyes and tried valiantly to master himself.

"No, it is not the same," he eventually said, and his voice was even and controlled. He was rather proud of that. "And you went and died before I got the chance to be angry with you, good and properly. You _died_ , Thorin, and I was never able to see you change, to learn how to forgive you, how to trust again. Instead, I got old and kept it all buttoned tight inside my chest and snapped and snarled at any who prodded at it. I've been a suspicious old sod for longer than I care to imagine, and I don't even know if I can change anymore."

"I am so sorry." Thorin repeated. "I am so, so sorry."

"I said it back then, and I'll say it now: I was glad to share in your perils," Bilbo said, and he looked away. _Out with it, Mad Baggins. You're old enough now to offer honesty for honesty, truth for truth._ "But I'm less thrilled about having all of this dredged up. I thought it all beautifully tucked away in my memories, never to be touched ever again. My own little secrets," he added, and sighed. "My secrets are just as destructive as yours in the end, it appears."

"The Ring," Thorin said softly.

"The Ring," Bilbo agreed. "Ah, what a useful and cunning little thing it is! And so light, far too light when you consider all the wickedness it holds. Smaug said it first, you know. I have very pretty manners for a thief and a liar. You were hardly a postscript to that little bauble, in the end."

He stared at his young, unwrinkled, unspotted hands. "No wonder I became such a paranoid old duffer."

"I do not doubt you, Bilbo, nor do I underestimate the influence of the One Ring," Thorin said, and he looked up at the Hobbit. "I have heard its coaxing voice, and I know the creeping tendrils of obsession and mistrust better than most. But you speak of care, and of hurting, and you dance around your meaning with your words. You start arguments and do not meet my eyes. You wished for answers, and now you evade them."

Bilbo's mouth clamped shut.

_My word, Thorin has changed indeed._

"I do not press you for anything," Thorin said, and he looked up to face Bilbo fully. His face was grave and beautiful underneath his riotous, silver-streaked hair. "I do not expect anything - I do not deserve explanations from you. But I must say this: Bilbo Baggins, I love you. I loved you when I did not know what it was I felt. All unknowing you stole your way into my affections, Master Burglar."

"Gracious, the dramatics again," Bilbo said, rather faintly. All these declarations! His heart couldn't take it; it was all too much.

But Thorin was still talking. "Surrounded by treachery, cursed by the dragon's greed and full of rage, I could not understand when I lived why it was I turned to you, over and over. Why, when my mind was overthrown, I reached for you and not for my kin. Why I felt at peace at last there upon the ice, with your hand upon my hair and your voice in my ears." Thorin's sharp, clear eyes flicked to the floor, to his preposterously charming baby-feet. "I acted violently, and foolishly. And I have not acted well in death either, it appears."

"Not… not exactly, no," Bilbo said, and his face felt rather hot. This was too much, far too quickly. He was feeling positively overwhelmed. Was there such a thing as spectral tea? He could do with a cup. "Why? Not… not love." The word skittered out from under his tongue, unsteady and slippery. "Tell me why you guard Frodo for me, why you've made a penance of it all."

Thorin was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "I will not be surprised if you cannot believe me, but I speak truth when I say that my guilt has poisoned me. I have been locked in shame and self-hatred. I have torn at my every good part in my haste to condemn my faults. I have allowed myself no peace, no healing, no understanding. I have driven myself to the edges of my endurance and punished myself in ways that I would call cruel if they were visited upon those I care for. If I have been unkind to others, I have been monstrous to myself."

Bilbo's eyes narrowed. That… sounded more like the Thorin Oakenshield he remembered, somehow: implacable in everything he did, both the good and bad. Or was it a plea for sympathy? No, it had been factually and regretfully said. This Thorin wanted pity no more than the old one had. "Oh, really?"

Thorin smiled. "I'm afraid so. I grow wiser now, I hope, though evidently I have further to grow. I am fortunate in the unconditional love of my kin."

"Your nephews."

Gratitude shone for a moment in Thorin's eyes, and he nodded once. "They stay close, as do my brother and mother."

"You have a _brother?"_ Bilbo was exceedingly cross now. Here Thorin sat, knowing absolutely everything there was to know about Bilbo – and he knew next to nothing about Thorin in return!

"I do." Thorin's chin dipped, and his mouth twitched. Fondness, perhaps. "I owe them much for how you see me today. If it were not for their devotion I would yet be mired in guilt, unable to clamber out. But you should not discount love as an incentive, Master Baggins. Dwarves have a particularly single-minded devotion, as it so happens."

A flash of memory (oh, unreliable!), and Bilbo remembered a campfire in the little woods beyond the Shire, and a cheerful round face that spoke longingly of home, and Alrís. "Bombur told me," Bilbo said stiffly.

"Then you know I will love you unending and never care for another." Thorin spoke so simply of loving Bilbo, as though it was as easy as that. Bilbo's shire-bred disapproval clucked in his mind, and he bit down on his tongue. He, at least, had some proper discretion, even if he had long ago shredded his good reputation (and good riddance to it).

Thorin continued, ducking his head until his chin touched his chest. "I have no right to your affection, and I make no claim. I hold no deed in my pocket, Bilbo – I cannot own you, nor do I wish to. I have learned the folly of clutching too tightly. This love needs no answer from you. It is no obligation you must meet. That is the way of our people."

Then Thorin's eyes flicked up, and there was a new spark dancing in their depths, something brighter and wiser and clear as river water. "You speak of care, and I am content. It gives me hope that someday perhaps you will forgive me, and learn to trust me once more."

Oh, honestly! Bilbo's face flamed. He couldn't be doing with all this – thisness! He firmly squashed the Tookish part of him, which was quite ready to go on another adventure so long as those eyes were doing the asking. "You can't even touch me, I think I'm safe enough," he said, rather tartly. "And Hobbits don't really speak of such things, not openly. It's not… proper."

The look Thorin sent him was sympathetic. "I know."

Bilbo scowled reflexively at that. "Oh naturally, of course you know, nosy parker. You're worse than any of my bothersome relations. And I don't know if I ever will forgive you. You hurt me, you scared the living marrow out of me, and insulted me and goodness knows what else, and then you got yourself _killed_ , if you please, and then even after you were dead you managed to show a deplorable lack of consideration. I'm beginning to see why you felt it necessary to do this, but don't think I like a single bit of it, dramatic Dwarvish declarations of affection aside. But I won't be doubted by you ever again, I _won't_."

Thorin seemed to be confused once more, and he frowned. A familiar expression at last! "I would take back my words and deeds once more…"

"You say that, and yet they remain said and done nevertheless." Thorin looked so terribly bleak at that, and the newly-released warmth in Bilbo's heart prompted him to add, "I'm not saying it's completely hopeless."

Thorin's head lifted and he unleashed the full slow devastating effect of that smile, and oh _drat, blast, botheration and confustication!_ "Then you meant what you said. On the ice."

"Yes, well, you were _dying_ at the time, weren't you? I had to say something," Bilbo threw out, and then he closed his eyes and grimaced, regretting his words immediately. "Yes I meant it. Stop doubting me."

"I do not doubt you, and never shall again," Thorin said earnestly, and he looked upon Bilbo as he had once before, deep in the belly of a mountain with an acorn sitting innocently upon his palm, even as a stolen stone burned a hole in his jerkin and a Ring plotted in his pocket. "I will do nothing without your permission. Never again will I assume or presume. I wait upon your pleasure, Master Baggins."

Bilbo reddened rather drastically. "Heavens," he faltered.

"What would you have me do?"

"I don't want – I haven't a clue. I'll think on it." Bilbo's eyes dropped down, and then he deliberately looked back up at the ceiling. "But as it so happens there is something you can do for me now."

"Yes? Anything, sabannimi."

"Please," Bilbo said again, and then he swallowed quite hard, "would you kindly put some pants on?"

* * *

Fíli peered into the tunnel mouth, and everything in him rose up and shrieked against it. "I don't like it."

Behind them, Sam sniffed. "Ugh! That smell!" he said. "It's getting stronger and stronger."

"Is this the only way, Sméagol?" said Frodo. The Hobbit's face was drawn and his cheeks were hollowed. His eyes were awful to see: huge and red-rimmed and full of pain.

"Oh, trust his word," Nori snorted.

Gollum simpered. "Yes, yes! Yes, we must go this way now."

"D'you mean to say you've been through this hole?" said Sam. "Phew! But perhaps you don't mind bad smells."

Gollum's eyes glinted. "He doesn't know what we minds, does he precious? No, he doesn't. But Sméagol can bear things. Yes. He's been through. O yes, right through. It's the only way."

Kíli glanced between the tunnel and his brother. "Are we sure about this?"

Fíli shook his head. "No. But let's go anyway."

Kíli's lips twitched into a resigned grin. "You are not sending me anywhere, let's make that plain."

"Now's when we need our little uncle," Fíli said, and held out his hands helplessly. "You're the fastest, you're the runner."

"Only because my legs are longer," Kíli objected. "And the little golden puffball is asleep, and you _know_ what a surly grump he is when he wakes."

"You'll go if and when I tell you to," Fíli grumbled, and shoved Kíli's shoulder. "Get a move on."

"How'd I get stuck with you two," Nori muttered, and tugged at the middle braid of his beard in annoyance.

Drawing a deep breath they passed inside, following the near-noiseless padding of Hobbit feet. In a few steps they were in utter and impenetrable dark.

"It's even darker than Moria," whispered Kíli.

"Not as dark as the Paths of the Dead though," Nori replied. "Hold tight, lads, we got through both of those."

Fíli reached out and laid a hand against the wall. "Smooth," he said in surprise. "The walls are smooth. That tunnel-mouth didn't seem to be the work of hands, though."

"The three of us aren't stone-talkers," Nori's voice floated out of the darkness. "Bifur'd know."

"I'm not bothering Bifur," Kíli commented. "Not if it means bothering Ori."

"Don't remind me," Nori said, rather sourly. "Dori's goin' to have kittens."

"If you promise to let us know when the fireworks begin, we'll pay admission?" Kíli said, and Nori huffed in amusement.

"Never thought o' that. Thanks, lads."

"Don't mention it."

"Hang on, where's Gollum gone?" said Fíli abruptly.

For the soft dry susurration of his scampering had disappeared, and all that could be heard was the stumbling of Sam and Frodo, and their nervous breaths. The two Hobbits kept moving as though dazed by the awful stench. A cold thrill gripped Fíli's throat: what was this? What was this place?

"Mister Frodo," Sam's voice said, hoarse and harsh in the darkness, "here, hold my hand. There, got you!"

Frodo's breath could be heard the loudest: he was nearly panting, the intake of air laborious and painful to hear. It was almost as though he was forcing himself to keep moving through the reek.

Then they heard Frodo cry out, and the sound of limbs hitting the floor. And then he said, "here, Sam! Up, up – it all comes from here, the stench and the peril. Now for it! Quick!"

"On your feet, Mister Frodo," Sam said, staunch even in stark terror.

"What," Kíli began, but then a dreadful chittering sounded through the tunnels, bouncing from the smooth stone walls and sending mocking, fading echoes skittering up Fíli's neck.

"I don't like the sound of that," whispered Nori.

"Come on!" Fíli barked, and he leapt after the whispering of Sam and Frodo's feet. The chittering seemed to follow them, nibbling horribly in their ears.

"Ah!" said Sam, and then: "noodles and ninnyhammers!"

"The tunnel forks here," Frodo said, resigned. "Are you all right?"

"Banged my pride rather more than my head, Mister Frodo sir," Sam panted, and Fíli could just about picture his brave expression, putting the best face he could upon his terror for the sake of his beloved Master. ""Which way has Gollum gone? And why didn't he wait?"

"Perhaps we _should_ get Bifur," whispered Kíli. "Ori might stay sleeping, you never know."

"He won't be able to tell much from stone he can't properly touch," said Nori. And then his voice lowered and he said, "an' I really don't need to see that."

"Sméagol!" said Frodo, trying to call. "Sméagol!" But his voice croaked, and the name fell dead almost as it left his lips.

"He's really gone this time, I fancy," muttered Sam. "I guess this is just exactly where he meant to bring us. Gollum! If ever I lay hands on you again, you'll be sorry for it."

"Samwise Gamgee, honorary Dwarf, I tell you," Fíli said. The creeping feeling on the back of his neck was getting worse, and he shifted uneasily.

There was a moment of fumbling, and then Frodo said, "the left way is blocked: some great stone has been rolled in front of it. Right or wrong, we must take the other."

"And quick!" Sam panted. "There's something worse than Gollum about. I can feel something looking at us."

"Not just me then," Fíli murmured.

"Can you see anything? You've got the best eyes," said Nori, and Fíli snorted.

"Ask the archer here, he's younger."

"Can't see my hand before my face, let alone anything to shoot at," Kíli said. "Let's get going: they're off again down the right passage."

"Stay close," Fíli ordered, and he felt rather than saw Kíli's eye-roll.

They had not gone more than a few yards when from behind them came a sound, startling and horrible in the heavy padded silence: a gurgling, bubbling noise, and a long venomous hiss. They wheeled round, but nothing could be seen. Still as stones they stood, staring, waiting for they did not know what.

"It's a trap!" shouted Sam.

"Are you bleedin' _kiddin'_ me, I could have told him that three weeks ago!" Nori bellowed, and the three Dwarves all huddled close, eyes straining into the suffocating murk.

"That foul reek!" Frodo gasped, and he retched and reeled. The bubbling hiss drew nearer, and there was a creaking as of some great jointed thing that moved with slow purpose in the dark.

"Mister Frodo!" cried Sam, life and urgency lending his voice unexpected power. "The Lady's gift! The star-glass! A light to you in dark places, she said it was to be. The star-glass!"

"The star-glass?" muttered Frodo, as though he was half-asleep and barely hearing Sam at all. "Why yes! Why had I forgotten it? A light when all other lights go out!"

Then there was a flickering, faint light – weak against the clinging blackness, struggling out from between thin fingers. It seemed feeble at first, and then like a rising star its power waxed and burned, until it glowed like a minute heart of dazzling light.

The darkness receded from it until it seemed to shine in the centre of a globe of airy crystal, and the hand that held it sparkled with white fire.

"Maker preserve us," Fíli whispered, and he heard Nori gasp in astonishment behind him.

"Now there's a pretty thing," he said admiringly.

Frodo's face was traced in bluish white by the sudden fierce starlight, and he was staring at his uplifted hand in awe. There was an ugly bruise on Sam's forehead.

" _Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima_!" Frodo cried, as though caught in a dream.

"What whation whatima?" said Kíli, under his breath.

"Elvish, I'll guess," Fíli answered, staring up at the tiny glass that shone like hope itself.

"Lads," Nori rasped, and he cleared his throat. "Lads. _Lads."_

"What?"

Nori only pointed, back down the way they had come. His finger was slightly trembling, something nobody of the Company had _ever_ seen. Even when faced with an entire Goblin city, Nori had kept his composure.

Fíli frowned and peered down the gloomy passage. "What is it?"

And then Kíli's hand shot out and clamped onto his bicep, the fingers like steel bands. For revealed by the glimmering star-phial was two great clusters of many-windowed eyes. They gleamed with menace: bestial and yet filled with purpose and with hideous delight, gloating over their prey trapped beyond all hope of escape.

Frodo and Sam, horror-stricken, began slowly to back away. And then all at once their nerve broke, and away they ran like frightened hares. The light bobbed and flickered madly like a candle-flame in a stiff breeze, throwing crazed swinging shadows all over the smooth tunnel walls.

"Quick!" Fíli said, and ushered his brother and Nori ahead of him. "Move!"

Kíli made no attempt to reply. He was already reaching over his shoulder as though for an arrow, and cursed as his hand groped at empty air. "Just run!" Fíli told him curtly.

Kíli swore again and tore off after the fleeing shape of Nori, Fíli hot on his heels. He risked a look behind, and wished immediately that he had not.

"The eyes are following!" he called ahead.

"Which way?" Sam gasped, and his little knife was lifted high. In Frodo's hand Sting began to glow with a faint blue sheen.

"I don't know!" Frodo said, and he whirled in a circle, his eyes desperate and the glass held aloft in one hand. "I don't know! Sméagol! Sméagol!"

"No use calling him," Nori snapped, and his elaborate hair had begun to fray from his running. "Can you two feel the passage at all?"

"A little," Kíli said dubiously.

Fíli concentrated, pushing his heels as firmly against the smooth, sleek rock as he could. "Left…?" he said.

"It's almost on us!" Sam said.

"Stand! stand!" Frodo said, and he swiped at his filthy face with his sleeve and turned to face the oncoming horror. "Running is no use."

Slowly the eyes crept nearer.

Frodo drew himself tall, and lifted the Phial higher. "Galadriel!" he breathed, and he turned to face the approaching monster, his bare little chin set and determined. Then he took a short, sharp breath and slowly set off back along the passage towards the shining malevolence of those myriad eyes.

Fíli stared in dismay. "What's he _doing?"_

"I can't watch," Kíli moaned. Fíli gripped his wrist and drew him near.

"They've stopped," said Nori in surprise.

"What?"

"All them eyes! They stopped, as though the light coming near hurt them. Then they disappeared!"

"Mister Frodo!" Sam exclaimed, and he put a hand to his chest in sheer relief. "Stars and glory! But the Elves would make a song of that, if ever they heard of it!"

"Elves?" Fíli snorted, made loud and crude in relief. "I'll sing you a song, better than any tra-la-la-lallying."

"Ahem," said Kíli pointedly.

"Tra-la-la-lally was a bit daft, you have to admit," Nori murmured.

Kíli harrumphed and folded his arms.

Sam pulled Frodo back, and then brushed down his threadbare, dust-stained jacket. "Now let's get out of this foul hole!"

"Yes," Frodo said distantly, looking along the passage after the vast, many-eyed thing that had fled. "Yes; to Mordor."

"Left!" Fíli repeated, and by some miracle, the Hobbits chose that path.

On they trudged once more, stumbling and pitching with fatigue, drained beyond words by the ordeal. "Is it my imagination," whispered Kíli, "Or is this tunnel sloping upwards now?"

"I can feel air on my face!" said Sam suddenly. "The way out is ahead, surely!"

"Ah!"

Sam nearly ran his little sword through his master's back. For Frodo had been trapped in some dense shadow that the star-glass could not illuminate; it seemed to absorb the light cast rather than reflect it. "What in tarnation…?" he said, and stepped back a little to view it.

Across the width and height of the tunnel a vast web was spun, orderly as the web of some huge spider, but denser-woven and far greater, and each thread was as thick as rope.

Sam laughed grimly. "Cobwebs!" he said. "Is that all? Cobwebs! But what a spider! Have at 'em, down with 'em!"

"Oh _no_ ," said Nori, and he bit down on one of his braids.

"Oh not again," Fíli groaned. "I hate these things."

"No elves around these parts, I'm thinking," said Kíli without much hope. Fíli glanced to his brother, and upon seeing the longing in his eyes he nudged his shoulder.

"Cheer up, gravel-for-brains, we've a job to do," he said as briskly as he could manage in this horrible place.

Kíli dredged up a grin from somewhere. "Said the pebble to the rock."

"You're both twits an' I'll brave seein' Ori lying beside Bifur if it means another rotation next time," Nori muttered, twisting his beard in his hands. "Spiders? Anybody remember? Hello?"

"Sam's on it," Kíli said, and shrugged.

But it appeared that Sam's little knife could not break the spider-strands. Three times Sam tried with all his might, and three times the cords bounced and jiggled and shook Frodo, caught in their midst, and did not part.

"Let me try Sting. Here, take the star-glass. Do not be afraid. Hold it up and watch!" Frodo said, and wrestled with the sticky stuff until he could move his sword-arm. Then he brought down his arm with all his weight behind it. The blue-gleaming blade shore through the web-cords like a scythe through grass, and they leaped and writhed and then hung loose. A great rent was made, and Frodo cut his feet free and was soon standing again.

Stroke after stroke he dealt, until at last all the web within his reach was shattered, and the upper portion blew and swayed like a loose veil in the incoming wind. The trap was broken.

"Let's go!" he cried, and sped on and on up the sloping tunnel. "We're almost there! Can't you feel it? Fresh air!"

"If you can call any air o' Mordor _fresh_ ," Sam grumbled, but he hitched up his pack and kept pace with Frodo as best he could.

"I can see the sky!" said Kíli joyfully. "They're going to make it!"

"They've slipped that little creep's nets, ha!" Fíli crowed. "Melekûnîth belkul!"

"I don't trust it," said Nori.

"You barely trust your eyes before your own nose, you old crook," laughed Kíli, and he stamped a half-measure of a drum-dance as he ran. "They made it!"

"They're not out yet," Nori said ominously.

"Look, Sam! The pass!" Frodo said, and he pointed ahead. A fey mood was on him, and he raced as fast as his furry feet could carry him towards the great horned tops of the cliffs. Just peering over them was the reddish light of a fire: the tower of Cirith Ungol.

"Master, your sword, there's orcs about and worse than orcs!" Sam said, lurching forward with a warning hand extended. Sting was glowing brighter than ever – an unwavering beacon in the smoky haze of Mordor. Frodo, however, was too far ahead: relief and joy at escaping the trap had made him careless, and he was at least 20 feet away. Sam cursed and shoved the star-phial – which he still held – into his jerkin, before clattering after Frodo with a warning still caught on his lips.

Hardly had Sam hidden the light of the star-glass when she came.

From beneath a crack in the cliff issued the most loathly shape Fíli had ever seen: horrible beyond the eyes of Smaug, more dreadful than Azog's blade. Like a spider she was, but huger than any great hunting beast, and more terrible than they because of the evil purpose in her many-faceted, malevolent eyes. Great horns she had, and behind her short stalk-like neck was her huge swollen body, a vast bloated bag, swaying and sagging between her legs; its great bulk was black, blotched with livid marks, but the belly underneath was pale and luminous and gave forth a stench. Her legs were bent, with great knobbed joints high above her back, and hairs that stuck out like steel spines, and at each leg's end there was a claw.

"The spiders of Mirkwood suddenly seem sort of tame," Nori choked, and he shoved both of his side-braids into his mouth and bit down as hard as he could.

"Get Thorin!" Fíli ordered, and Kíli nodded rapidly and flashed away in a burst of starlight as Gimlîn-zâram stole him away.

The squelching, clacking, bubbling noise now made a terrible sort of sense. Nori and Fíli crowded close as the vast spider closed in behind Frodo, cutting Sam off from his master. Either she did not see the gardener, or she was avoiding the bearer of that painful pure light.

Sam gasped and gathered all his remaining breath to shout. "Look out behind!" he yelled. "Look out master! I'm" – but suddenly his cry was stifled.

A long-fingered hand had gripped him from behind, clasping over his mouth and nose and making it hard to breathe. It yanked him back with awful soft strength, wiry and fueled by a burning resentment that could have torn mountains apart.

"Mahumb," Nori breathed. "I hate being right."

"Got him!" hissed Gollum. "At last, my precious, we've got him, yes, the nassty Hobbit, the suspicious Hobbit, the stupid fat one. We takes this one. She'll get the other. O yes, Shelob will get him, not Sméagol: he promised; he won't hurt Master at all. But he's got you, you nassty filthy little sneak!" He spat on Sam's neck.

Sam's cheerful brown face, which had drained in fury at this treachery, suddenly flushed red. Rage and panic for Frodo's safety gave him a sudden violence and strength, and he took Gollum completely by surprise.

Not Gollum himself could have twisted more quickly or more fiercely. Sam wriggled away from the foul little beast and desperately he tried to turn and stab his enemy. But Gollum was wily and had long years to practice his vicious arts. He recovered quickly. His arm shot out and he grabbed Sam's wrist: his fingers were like a vice; slowly and relentlessly he bent the hand down and forward, till with a cry of pain Sam released the sword and it fell to the ground; and all the while Gollum's other hand was tightening on Sam's throat.

"No, no, no," Nori groaned.

"Hurry up, Kee," Fíli whispered. "Hurry up!"

Then Sam played his last trick. With all his strength he pulled away and got his feet firmly planted; then suddenly he drove his legs against the ground and with his whole force hurled himself backwards. Gollum fell over with the sturdy Hobbit on top, all his breath driven out of him in a rush. He lay dazed, his twiglike limbs thrown asunder.

"Yes!" Fíli whooped, and he turned and headbutted Nori in his exuberance. Then he realised what exactly he had done, and drew back. Nori's face was sardonic.

"Next time wait until your brother's here, awright?"

Sam wasn't done. He laid in with his fists, one-two, one-two, in the simplest fashion possible. Fíli's hard-learned knowledge, gained from thousands of lessons from Thorin and Dwalin alike, despaired at the crude country technique. But the rest of him was cheering loudly as Gollum hissed and spat like a scalded cat. Apparently he was off his game when he could not grab and strangle his prey unawares, and a furious and stout Hobbit such as Sam Gamgee was far too difficult a meal – particularly once Sam swept up his dropped sword and raised it.

With a squeal, Gollum sprang aside on to all fours and he jumped away in one big bound like a frog. Before Sam could reach him, he was off, running with amazing speed back towards the tunnel.

"Damn you, Stinker!" Sam roared after him, and a fell light was in his honest eyes. "I'll find you and I'll stick you like one o' Old Proudfoot's pigs, so I shall!"

"Sam Gamgee, look to your master!" came a deep, commanding voice from behind Fili. All the tension in his belly unknotted all at once, and he turned to see Kíli hovering behind Thorin. His brother was wringing his hands anxiously.

But there was a power and a strength and a life in Thorin that Fíli had not seen since –

No, he had _never_ seen Thorin thus.

It was as though all his warring, troubled facets had finally met in peace at last. His uncle was dishevelled, with plain trousers and the tunic he wore was creased and his hair half-mussed, but he wore his disarray with easy grace. He looked more alive than he had looked in - well, ever.

"Mahal wept," said Nori, echoing Fíli's own thoughts. "Has he? After struggling all these decades?"

Sam nearly dropped his sword, pausing at the dark hole of the tunnel. "Frodo," he said, and then he turned and raced as fast as any Hobbit had ever done. "Mister Frodo!"

The Dwarves all tore after him, but none of them were fleet enough to catch up with a Hobbit even upon their best day. The huge black stinking bag that was Shelob's abdomen rose before them, and Fíli could see a small shape beneath those clacking legs, spinning round and around and around.

"I have come too late," Thorin said, eyes ablaze and his mouth tight and worried.

"I _hate_ webs," Nori muttered. "They take forever to get out of the eyebrows."

The monster was so intent upon her prize that she did not even notice Sam and his shouting until he was upon her. Nearby lay Sting, dropped where it had fallen. Sam did not even hesitate, but scooped up the little Elven letter-opener and sprang forward with it. "Now come, you filth!" he yelled. "You've hurt my master, you brute, and you'll pay for it!"

The gargantuan spider seemed to be shaken out her gloating dreams by Sam's little yell, and slowly she turned as though bending her malice upon him.

"What can we do?" Kíli said desperately, and Fíli's hand was groping into his coat for an absent blade.

"Wait," Thorin said, and though his voice was quiet it nevertheless quieted their small group. "This foul carrion-carcass does not yet know that this one is a lion beneath his Hobbit-skin. She will know it ere long."

Sam's eyes were lit with blazing fury, and he sprang beneath the arches of those clacking, stinking legs to slide directly underneath that grizzled ancient head with its clustered eyes. With a quick upthrust, one great eye went dark, and the mammoth spider screeched in outrage and agony.

"None have set blade to that foul flesh before now, I'll wager," Thorin said with some satisfaction. "I hope it enjoyed the taste."

Sam was hollering at the top of his lungs, his whole face red with rage. He was still beneath the monstrous spider, ducking and rolling and weaving to avoid her stabbing pincer-legs. Her vast belly was above him with its putrid light, and Fíli could see him gagging upon the stench. Still his wrath sustained him for one more blow, and he stabbed wildly upwards.

"Got her!" Fíli shouted.

But this beast was not as dragons are, no softer spot had she save only her eyes. Knobbed and pitted with corruption was her age-old hide, but ever thickened from within with layer on layer of evil growth. The blade scored it with a dreadful gash, but those hideous folds could not be pierced by Sam's wild swing. She yielded to the stroke, and then heaved up the great bag of her belly high above Sam's head.

Poison frothed and bubbled from the wound. Now splaying her legs she drove her huge bulk down on him again. Too soon. For Sam still stood upon his feet, and dropping his own sword, with both hands he held the elven-blade point upwards, fending off that ghastly roof; and so Shelob, with the driving force of her own cruel will, with strength greater than any warrior's hand, thrust herself upon a bitter spike.

Deep, deep it pricked, as Sam was crushed slowly to the ground.

A scream, unheard of in all the world since the very dawn of time, was let loose deep within the spider's body. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing limbs and keened in agony.

"The star-glass! From Lothlórien!" Fíli urged, and Thorin whipped around and repeated, "the phial of Galadriel!"

Sam fumbled in his tattered waistcoat and drew it forth again, and the colossal spider writhed in agony as it smashed into her damaged eye. Her limbs spasmed, gross and ungainly and rubbery, as she slunk away into her tunnels and away from the prey that had cost her more dearly than any other had ever done. Her clacking limbs and reeking stench were the last of her that could be seen, and then she was gone.

"Durin's blood, beard and bones," Kíli said, stunned.

"Frodo, Mister Frodo!" Sam gasped and, and he fell to his knees by Frodo's head. "Wake up, Mister Frodo me dear!"

Frodo did not speak.

Sam ripped with all his might at the sticky cords that wrapped around Frodo, enveloping him in a shroudlike cocoon. He was only able to pull open the area over Frodo's face. The older Hobbit was ashen and as still as carven marble.

"Master, dear master," Sam said, and through a long silence waited, listening in vain. Then seized by a panic, he pressed his ear against Frodo's chest and held his breath, and then held a hand over Frodo's mouth. He patted at Frodo's cheeks, rubbed at his hands, and felt at his brow.

"It cannot be," Fíli heard Thorin say, low and pained. "Not Frodo…!"

Sam lifted Frodo's spider-silk wrapped head into his lap and pressed it against his chest. Tears were beginning to well in his honest eyes, and Fíli could barely look at the pain in his face. "Frodo, Mister Frodo!" he sobbed. "Don't leave me here alone! It's your Sam calling. Don't go where I can't follow! Wake up, Mister Frodo! O wake up, Frodo, me dear, me dear. Wake up!"

Fíli could not have said how long they stood there, watching Sam bowed to the ground beneath his black despair. Thorin's hand upon his shoulder made him startle, and he realised he was weeping. He tried to swallow his tears, but they ran into his beard nevertheless. "Namadul,  here," Thorin said, and wiped beneath his eyes with a thumb. "It is no shame to feel sorrow," he said, his own eyes glimmering suspiciously and his own voice full of grief. He cupped Fíli's jaw momentarily, and then drew him against his side. Kíli was pressed against his other shoulder, his face hidden amidst Thorin's wild hair. His back trembled, as though with sobs.

"All that watching, all that, that," Nori burst out, and he clenched his fists. "Bilbo will be _shattered_. To come so far, to get so close!"

"So close," Kíli said, muffled by Thorin's hair. "The pass is right there! Oh, curse Gollum, why did Frodo ever trust him?"

"Because he had to believe that he could be saved," Thorin said thickly, and he tucked Fíli's head under his chin. The familiar warm scent of him reminded Fíli of his childhood, and he took a shuddering breath, and then another. "Because the dark temptation of the Ring is what created Gollum, and even Hobbits may feel greed. Because we are all worthy of pity now and then, even the very meanest of us."

"Oh what shall I do now, Mister Frodo?" Sam said tenderly, and he stroked Frodo's motionless face. "Did I come all this way with you for nothing?"

"Frodo Baggins," Thorin said, and he bowed his head, his chin pressing against the crown of Fíli's head. "Ah, nekhushel. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal."

Kíli softly began to hum the mourning-song, and Nori and Fíli joined in.

"What can I do?" Sam managed through hitching breath and swimming eyes. "What can I do? Not leave you here unburied on top of the mountains, and go home. Or go on? Go on?" he repeated, and for a moment doubt and fear crossed his ravaged round face. "Go on? Is that what I've got to do? And leave him?"

"Aye, azaghîth," said Thorin, low.

"What? Me, alone, go to the Crack of Doom and all?" Sam quailed. "What? Me take the Ring from him? The Council gave it to him."

"The quest must continue, little tender of the soil, lion of the Shire," Thorin said, and his normally smooth deep voice cracked. "No one person is bigger than this task. The Council gave this burden to Frodo, but Frodo was given companions so that the task might not fail. And you are the last one left."

"I wish I wasn't the last," Sam groaned. "I wish old Gandalf was here or somebody."

"Even wizards fear this deed, Samwise Gamgee," Thorin said, and Fíli felt the bob of his throat as he swallowed. "You must go on. There is no other way."

"I'm sure to go wrong. And it's not for me to go taking the Ring, putting myself forward." Sam's fingers traced over Frodo's cold brow, and then he sighed heavily. "But you haven't put yourself forward; you've been put forward. And as for not being the right and proper person, why, Mister Frodo wasn't as you might say, nor Mister Bilbo. They didn't choose themselves."

"If Frodo is found with that thing on him, assuming Gollum doesn't rob him, well – the Enemy will get it. And even if Gollum gets his desire, the Dark Tower will see him. And that will be the end of everything," Thorin said, even as he wept for Frodo. The tears trickled down his face unheeded, but his voice was implacable now. "You have no time, and the days grow short and bloody. War beckons on every horizon, and you are the last hope left."

Sam sat, still as stone, for a long, long moment. Then he shook himself as though coming out of a dark dream.

"If I'm to go on," he said, "then I must take your sword, by your leave, Mr. Frodo, but I'll put this one to lie by you; and you've got your beautiful mithril coat from old Mister Bilbo. And your star-glass, Mister Frodo, you did lend it to me and I'll need it, for I'll be always in the dark now. It's too good for me, and the Lady gave it to you, but maybe she'd understand. Do you understand, Mister Frodo? I've got to go on."

Then Sam steeled himself as though he were about to plunge his hand into fire. Very gently he undid the clasp at Frodo's neck and slipped his hand inside his tunic; then with his other hand raising the head, he kissed the cold forehead, and softly drew the chain over it.

Not a flicker passed over Frodo's face – and that, more than anything, convinced Fíli that Frodo was truly dead. He would not suffer the Ring to be removed thus if –

**Golden Heart, heir to Durin's Throne**

Fíli cried out, and clapped his hands over his ears.

**Crown Prince, Lion prince, gold be your name and gold can be your dominion, power and rule can be yours**

"Namadul!" Thorin shouted, and he whirled Fíli to stare into his face. Fíli stared back at Thorin's eyes, his breath coming in jerky shallow gulps. "On me, focus on me, on my voice! It cannot harm you!"

 **Kidhuzurkurdu** , the voice whispered, seductive and sinuous. Fíli clawed for air, and desperately pleaded without words for it to stop, _stop!_

"On me, Namadul!" Thorin commanded, and he pressed their heads together tightly. "Eyes on me!"

"Fee!" Kíli shouted, and he could vaguely feel his brother's arms wrapping tightly around him. "Don't listen to it!"

And then Sam put the chain into his waistcoat pocket, and Fíli sagged like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Kíli had to struggle beneath his weight for a moment, before Nori slung his arm over his shoulders and hauled him up.

"Well, that was tense," was all he said. The whites of his eyes were showing, and he was visibly trembling again. Fíli wondered for a second what Nori had heard, and then shuddered.

"It's tried it on us before," Kíli said, worriedly looking into Fíli's face. "It didn't get anywhere then, so I'll bet it's calling harder now. I didn't hear it this time. Must be attempting to strike a new vein."

"It can only lie and destroy," Thorin said darkly, and he smoothed back Fíli's braids. "You did well. All of you. Are you all right, Fili? Nori?"

Fíli nodded, and tried to compose himself. The voice had been like a vice, squeezing all thought from his head. How had Frodo even borne the thing a single _day?_ "So, you can't hear it any more?" he managed, and Kíli shook his head.

"It calls, but I will not answer," Thorin said with firm finality. "Do you need to go?"

Fíli hesitated, and Nori bit his lip.

"Then we will go," said Thorin, and he glanced back at the scene. "Sam is the Ringbearer now. We can do no more here."

Sam was standing, oh-so slowly, as though he staggered beneath a great weight. Then he dashed away his new tears and looked longingly at Frodo's still, calm face. "Good-bye, master, my dear!" he murmured. "Forgive your Sam. He'll come back to this spot when the job's done – if he manages it. And then he'll not leave you again. Rest you quiet till I come; and may no foul creature come anigh you! And if the Lady could hear me and give me one wish, I would wish to come back and find you again. Good-bye!"

"Forgive me, Bilbo," Fíli heard Thorin whisper as the starlight reached around him and bore him gently away.

* * *

"They've pulled us out o' position," Dáin growled, and he sent Värc the raven back into the sky with a bounce of his forearm. "The Dale-Men's warriors are trapped in the tunnel, and we are still pinned in this bloody pile o' rock. Hammer and tongs! Imagine, throwing away a _whole army_ just to make a diversion! And now Dale lies defenceless, bare as a babe, while they bring up this second force to rout her!"

Bomfrís panted, her hand clamped to her side. Upon her shoulder, the raven Tuäc croaked anxiously.

"Where is Thorin?" she said once she had her breath again. "I thought he was to man the walls?"

"There was a change o' plans, lass," Dáin said, and he held his hand high and brought it down with a flick of gnarled fingers. Shouts came as the signal was relayed along the wall, and great steaming kettles of hot liquid metal were poured from the battlements into the teeming, stinking horde below. The screaming and the stench was awful, and Bomfrís clamped a forearm over her mouth. "The tunnel has been breached."

Bomfrís stared at the King. "And he is down there?"

"Aye." Dáin watched the shrieking Orcs below, his wrinkled face hard as granite. "He has the best of our sappers with him, an' that Elf prince whose company you like so much."

Bomfrís scowled automatically at the mention of Laerophen, and then Dáin's words sank in and she paled, her freckles standing out starkly against her skin. "How long now?"

"Hours," Dáin said, and he reached out and patted her arm absently. "He's a strong lad, my son. He'll come back to you."

"How do you know?" she demanded.

Dáin turned to her, and she could see the incredible age in his faded blue eyes, the weariness. "Because he must," he said, and squeezed her forearm. "Now, go to the sconces, m'girl. Keep yourself safe. We need your bow to cover our assault."

"Our assault?" she said in alarm, but the King was striding along the wall to where Dwalin stood like an immovable boulder, gesturing for the old general to bend his head to talk.

"What d'you think he means, our assault?" Tuäc whispered.

"I don't know," she said, and wrung her hands. "But we have to go to the tunnel."

"No fear, you're not getting me down there!" Tuäc squawked, her wings rustling in indignation. "And the King said to go above!"

"Stay behind then, featherhead," she hissed, and span on her heel so quickly that the raven was forced to backwing away.

Tuäc hovered a moment, flapping and watching the Dwarrowdam race away, clad in her leather jerkin and pants and a hastily-donned brigandine. "Oh, I shall regret this," she said to herself, her beak clacking. "Bomfrís! Wait!"

Dáin glanced back as Bomfrís darted into the Mountain, and sighed. "Well, bugger."

"She didn't go back to the archery-posts, did she," Dwalin said, and it was not a question. He grunted. "I can send one o' mine to go get her."

"We've bigger matters," Dáin said, and he pulled off his helm and rubbed his forehead for a moment or two. "So. You agree?"

Dwalin gave him a crooked grin. "Done it before, haven't I?"

"Aye, but it weren't me doing the asking." Dáin stared out over the battlements for a moment. A great white Orc sneered at him from amidst the seething mass before the Mountain, her lips pulled back from bloody teeth. In her hand she held a great flail and scars were carved into her face in horribly familiar patterns. Dwalin glanced at the King, and then followed his gaze.

"Dâgalûr," said Dáin, and he shook his head. "Bolg's daughter. That family is worse than flies on a carcass."

"Aye, and we're the carcass," growled Dwalin. "Well, I'll go kill her then."

Dáin grinned. "Aye, but let me have my go first. Royal prerogative."

"Royal ass, more like," Dwalin muttered, and scowled like a thundercloud at the huge Orc-chiefess.

Dáin pulled the boar-helm back on and squared his shoulders. "Where's Dís?"

Dwalin nodded to behind Dáin, and he turned to see the First Advisor, standing like the figurehead upon a prow. She wore an ancient mail-shirt and faulds that bore the sigils of her ancestor, Thorin I, and in a blue surcoat and trousers she had never looked more like her brother. Her grey hair flapped in the wind as she lifted her sword and cut down the Orc that was crawling up the Mountainside like some elongated cockroach. "Need a hand there?"

"In a – moment!" she grunted, and pinned the Orc through with her sword like an insect upon a board. Then she leaned against it heavily and mopped at her brow. "I am too old for this."

Dwalin barked out a laugh. "Aye, you and all of us. And here we are."

"Why are you two bothering me now," she grumbled, and blew her hair out of her face with a puff. Sweat had washed dust and grime into the deep lines of sorrow and bitterness at mouth, eyes and brow. "I'm busy."

"As we feared," Dáin said simply, and she froze for a fraction of a second. Then her shoulders slumped.

"Ah."

"You don't seem surprised, either of you, if you don't mind me sayin'," said Dwalin, and he casually kicked an Orc in the face to send it screaming down off the battlements.

"I'm not," Dáin said, and he turned to headbutt another, sending it howling after Dwalin's. "Just sort o' resigned, to be honest."

"Dáin, please don't," said Dís, and she yanked her sword free of the Orc she had felled and took two halting steps towards her cousin. "Don't…"

"Brand is left surrounded," he said, and her face twisted in anger.

"They would not send help for us!"

"They did eventually," Dwalin murmured, and Dáin nodded. Dís scoffed, waving a hand jerkily.

"Eventually! Months later, _months_ into this stinking siege. A token force only, trapped underground. We had to send Bofur to _beg!_ "

"And no shame in that," said Dáin, and he grabbed the confused-looking Orc that had made it to the tops of the wall, blinking in surprise, and butted it sharply. It went limp in his grip. "Just remindin' them of their agreements. Bein' neighbourly, you might say."

"You and your agreements!" she snarled. "Always with your bloody agreements!"

"Well, that's why we make 'em," Dáin said peaceably, and he used his handful as a shield against the spear that came hurtling towards him. It made a _schlock!_ sound as it entered the Orc's body. "We make 'em to honour 'em."

"Ignore it!" Dís cried, and she whirled and decapitated another Orc, kicking its head away with more than usual vehemence. "We are _still_ surrounded, you mad old fool, it is suicide! We have enough to deal with as it is!"

Dáin shared a glance with Dwalin. "I can't, Dís."

"Your damned honour!" she spat, and then roused herself again to smash the face of an Orc with her mailed fist. It clutched its head and keeled over the wall, and she flicked the blood from her blade with a twist of her wrist. "Dáin, curse it all - honour will get you killed!"

"As you've said often enough," Dáin said, and he hauled himself around to send Barazanthual, his famous red axe, into the skull of another climber.

"Dwalin you cannot possibly agree," she implored him, Dwalin shifted slightly, uncomfortable. "You are our General. You must agree: this makes no military sense! It's lunacy!"

"Well, there's a strain o' that in our family, they do say," Dwalin said after a moment, and Dís' face drained of all colour.

"This is about Thorin," she said, biting the words off in her fury. "Dáin, damn you…"

"No, it ain't about him," Dwalin said curtly. "This is about Dale. We have all three of us known Brand since he was in swaddling cloths. You dandled him on your knee, an' Dáin gifted him with one o' Bofur's toy soldiers. He is our _friend._ We promised to defend his home, cousin. You promised to personally defend it with your own blade."

She stared at them.

Then she closed her eyes. "Yes, I did," she said, nearly to herself. "I promised."

And then, even quieter: "Must I bury you too?"

Dáin stumped forward to lay a hand upon her shoulder and look earnestly into her face. "Stop that, now," he said. "Stop it, there ain't no guarantees, an' who knows? I might not cark it."

"Our track record of retaining our Kings in battle is not encouraging," she said tartly, her eyes still closed. "You have been preparing us: Thira, myself, your son, Bomfrís. You have been _planning_. Why do you have to be so…"

"So pigheaded?" Dáin finished for her, grinning broadly. She opened her eyes to pin him with her glare.

"Droll," she said, her marvellous voice cracking.

He tightened his fingers upon her shoulder. "I've not left you yet," he said. "And you're older than I am."

"Not that any can tell," she grated back. "I've been ice for longer than you can ever imagine. You still let the world change you: you let the world move you. I cannot."

"I know, namaduh kurdulu," he said, stepping closer. "I have eyes and a mind, and I make use of 'em. But come with me anyway."

She stared at him some more, her chest heaving.

Dwalin began to sing softly under his breath in a rusty but pleasant voice:

[[The Iron Hills soldiers' song (choral), performed and arranged by the author](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/110121733408/here-is-the-13th-track-on-the-ongoing-album)]

[[The Iron Hills soldiers' song (solo), performed and arranged by notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/109654879548/here-is-the-12th-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-performed)]

" _My home is no great hall of stone:_  
_No golden treasures greet me._  
_Nor an ancient place of great renown  
__No grandeur in its history._

_My home may not seem much to you_  
_And pretty poor you think her_  
_But gold and gems will turn on you  
_ _Where iron will not falter…"_

Dáin smiled. "Trying to make an old man nostalgic now?"

"Is it working?" Dwalin retorted.

"I hate you both," Dís breathed. "Open the damned gates then. Let's save Dale."

"Get Thira, tell her to get to the outer bailey," Dáin said, hauling a nearby warrior by the arm and hissing in his ear. "Don't dawdle now!"

Dwalin lifted his Warhammer, and brought it down upon the nearby drum with a resounding and thunderous boom that seemed to shatter the very air, before following it with two faster beats, and then four slow.

The silence that followed was hushed and astonished.

"Are you sure, Majesty?" asked a soldier.

Dáin ignored that, and began to stump his way from the battlements to the Great Gates.

"O but take me where the falcons scream," sang Dwalin softly, following behind him. Dáin snorted, and joined in with his old and cracking voice:

" _And the wind rips round the mountains,_  
_Where the waters run as red as blood  
__And cascade in crashing fountains."_

"Sentimental old men!" Dís spat, and when the following verses began to rise from all the throats around them, she closed her eyes and yet still a tear managed to escape from beneath her eyelid.

" _My home is hard and poor and free_  
_And untamed as any lion._  
_No gold nor gems does she have for me,  
__Her proud hard heart is iron._

_My home is far away from here_  
_My hearth it calls me sadly_  
_My forge it lies so cold and drear  
_ _When it used to echo gladly."_

By the Gate General Orla stood, along with Glóin, Dori, Gimrís and the combat healers. Her long-handled axe was held loosely in her hand and her eyes were confused as she took in the contingent of warriors from the battlements, all singing softly and led by the King.

"What's this?" she hissed to Dís, who sent her friend a hard look full of bitterness.

Glóin pulled at his vast snowy beard and sighed, his eyes distant. "It's an old Iron Hills soldiers' song."

"This is Dáin being a noble fool off to die for glory and honour and Erebor, like all the rest," Dís growled. "It will not be content until we are all spent!"

Orla was silent for a second, her usually stern mien cracking to show a swift and suddenly-concealed sadness. "Ah," was all she said.

Queen Thira was by the door, and she took the King's old, white-braided head in her hands and kissed him lingeringly. No-one was close enough to hear them speak, but she was weeping when she drew away and her thin face was anguished.

  
  
Dain and Thira, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/110148352009/3-so-after-reading-the-latest-chapter-of-sansukh)  


"You always knew I wouldn't die in a bed, my love, and you always knew I'd go before ye," Orla could hear Dáin say, and she tried to stopper her ears. "Why you married such an old Dwarrow, Mahal only knows. Watch our boy, won't you?"

"You're not planning to come back to me, not this time," she said, and he smiled.

"I think I'm done. This bloody pile o' rock that Oakenshield dumped on us has wrung me dry, but I can give her one last thing, eh?"

"Dáin," she half-gasped, and he smoothed back her black beard upon her cheeks with a thumb.

"Love you," was all he said.

"Come back," she moaned, and gripped at his hand. He pressed his forehead against hers, and ran her black braids through his hands once, letting them swing freely. "You always have before. Come back again, prove them all wrong one last time!"

"I'll try," he said, but he didn't sound optimistic. "I'll try."

  
  
Dáin and Thira, one last time, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/109687412035/dain-and-thira-one-last-time-im-crying-chpt-34)  


Soldiers poured in from the battlements to gather behind the King, Orla, Dwalin, and Dís. The song rose in volume as the King kissed the Queen again, and her lips lingered upon his and her thin clever hands gripped his wrinkled, wise, wearied face.

" _O I long for where the sun beats down_  
_And the rivers roar with fierceness_  
_Where the earth is painted red not brown  
__And the weather scares me beardless._

_For gems and gold and mighty halls_  
_The great will bid us roam._  
_And every time we obey their call  
_ _We pray that we come home."_

Dáin nodded to Orla, who lifted her axe. Above the door, Dori winded the great battle-horn and the massive gears behind the Gates began to creak as the mechanism was turned for the first time in months. Dáin kissed Thira once more, and then he accepted Dwalin's knife and held it to his own wild white head. A braid came loose, and he pressed it into her hands, and then he caught Dís' eyes.

  
  
Dis, by [renvsner](http://renvsner.tumblr.com/post/110517331249/dis-daughter-of-thrain-first-advisor-of)  


Her face was so contorted it appeared that she was growling, and her dark eyes were swimming in tears as around them every throat opened in thunderous, triumphant song:

" _Soon the drums will sound again_  
_And out we'll trot like cattle_  
_The lordly need that iron blood  
__For watering their battle._

_O I'll turn my feet towards the north_  
_Like a compass ever true!_  
_I'll never roam again henceforth  
_ _From my land of red and blue!"_

"Come on then," said Dáin, and he shouldered Barazanthual. "Let's go face that scum all over again."

"You always knew," she accused him fiercely, "you always…"

"Dís," Dáin said, and his voice was nearly swallowed by the singing around them. "That blood-feud is centuries old, and we have never escaped it, _never_. Her great-grandfather beheaded my father, and I slaughtered him in return. Her grandfather killed Thrór and Fíli and Thorin, and Thorin killed him in return. Her father killed Kíli! Can we ever escape it? I'm next, and I know it. The target's on my head now. I've outrun it for a hell of a long time – but you can only run so fast when you've a dud leg like me."

"You bastard!" she cried, and he tipped his head.

"Aye," he said gently, and squeezed Thira's hand. "But practical. We have to save Dale, cousin. If Dale falls, we're good an' lost. We can't eat gold and we cannot stand alone, we learned that long ago. So, Dâgalûr is the risk we must face, an' I've known ever since I learned her name that she held my ticket in her filthy hands. But I tell you this, Dís: when this scum gets me, I'm countin' on you to get her in return."

"You'll kill her yourself, you damned fool," Dís snarled, and he laughed.

"Perhaps. It feels like a lucky sort o' day!"

The voices rose to a shattering wall of sound, and he turned to look at the Gates with determination glinting in those pale and faded blue eyes.

" _O! I dream of jagged rusty skies,_  
_And her savage wild beauty._  
_I see her when I close my eyes;  
__The Iron Hills for me!"_

"The Iron Hills for me," Dáin sang to himself, quiet and rasping, and the boar-helm stooped for a second.

Then he lifted his axe into the sky and called in a great and dreadful voice:

"BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU!"

The Gates crashed open and the answering roar shook the air around them as Dáin led the Dwarves through and out into the killing field. Dís gritted her teeth and lifted her sword and followed through the haze of her angry tears.

  
  
Dis, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/110325750164/lovely-tragic-dis-from-the-lotr-hobbit-fanfiction)  


* * *

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal (formal goodbye)  
> BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU! - (War-cry) "The Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!"  
> Mahumb - droppings  
> sabannimi - Beautiful  
> Melekûnîth belkul - mighty little hobbits  
> namadul - son of sister  
> Kidhuzurkurdu - golden heart  
> namaduh kurdulu - sister of my heart
> 
> **Black Speech**  
>  Dâgalûr - Demon
> 
> **Quenya**  
>  Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima _-_ Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars!
> 
> ...
> 
> A reference is made here to 'The Hobbit' in which Thorin says: "Dori is the strongest, but Fili is the youngest and still has the best sight."
> 
> Dialogue and description taken from 'Shelob's Lair' and 'The Choices of Master Samwise'.
> 
> The reason behind the Iron Hills' relative stability was their lack of Dwarven Ring. The rings attracted great treasure hoards, which in turn attracted dragons.
> 
> Under Dain's rule, the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain gained a reputation for being trustworthy.
> 
> The soldiers' song is my own work and not Tolkien's. *hides* I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The Dwarves of the Iron Hills were the last to make it to the Battle of Azanulbizar. There, upon the steps of Khazad-dum, Dain's father Nain was beheaded by Azog before his eyes. Then Dain (who was a lad of only 32 at the time) slew Azog in return. In this story I have reconciled this book canon with the new movie!canon by implying that book-Azog is in fact movie-Azog's father. (This, for those who find this as funny as I do, means that movie-Azog would have been called _Junior_ ).
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO: please find on my tumblr the fab [DAIN IRONFOOT IS AWESOME fic rec list](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/108782556603/hi-im-sorry-to-ask-but-do-you-know-of-any-fics), for fans of Dain who want to avoid the floods of villain!Dain fics!  
> (and to those people who write villain!Dain - coolies! But **pretty please tag it** , it would be much appreciated.)
> 
> ALSO ALSO: I am a bit pressed for time these days what with my beautiful little dwarfling, and I often find it very difficult to answer, but I appreciate and read EVERY SINGLE COMMENT. They mean the world to me. Thank you SO MUCH.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got so incredibly long, I'm chopping it in half! Thanks go to thudworm, notanightlight and the fabulous poplitealqueen. *hugs*
> 
> [Here is the mighty Sansukh Masterpost, as always! ](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost)
> 
> **Art and Artiness**  
>  Chess-ka: [Some Dwarf cuddles! Ori and Bifur, Bofur and Gimris, Orla and Dwalin!](http://chess-ka.tumblr.com/post/113284986436/some-dwarf-cuddles-from)  
> Gremlinloquacious: [Orla](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/111991368480/here-have-an-orla-before-i-go-to-bed-orla-is)  
> foxinsocksinabox: [Grown-up Gimizh and Laerophen](http://foxinsocksinabox.tumblr.com/post/111482287047/ahhh-first-time-drawing-fanart-for-a-fic-in-years)  
> gremlinloquacious: [Gimris WIP](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/110664226040/gimris-wip-doodle-hell-yeah-determamfidds)  
> Mandel21: [Legolas and Laerophen are really concerning their elder brother](http://mandel21.tumblr.com/post/110647713026/laindawar-have-conserns-regarding-what-venturing)  
> Mandel21: [Never hand your kid to Laerophen](http://mandel21.tumblr.com/post/110647230356/never-hand-your-child-to-laerophen-you-are-not)  
> renvsner: [Dis, chapter 34](http://renvsner.tumblr.com/post/110517331249/dis-daughter-of-thrain-first-advisor-of)  
> kazimakuwabara: [Dis, chapter 34](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/110325750164/lovely-tragic-dis-from-the-lotr-hobbit-fanfiction)  
> kazimakuwabara: [Dain and Thira](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/110148352009/3-so-after-reading-the-latest-chapter-of-sansukh)  
> mandel21: [The sons of Orla and Dwalin](http://mandel21.tumblr.com/post/109989058786/todays-drawing-is-more-fanart-8d-dwalin-and-orlas)  
> mandel21: [Laerophen](http://mandel21.tumblr.com/post/109902445846/tried-to-draw-laerophen-aka-mr-think-of-the)  
> mamma-scandinavia: [Please put on some pants! a comic](http://mamma-scandinavia.tumblr.com/post/109898069988/determamfidd-i-decided-to-draw-my-favorite-part)  
> celebrenithil: Dagalur  
> fishfingersandscarves: [Dain and Thira](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/109687412035/dain-and-thira-one-last-time-im-crying-chpt-34)
> 
> **Songs**  
>  I sang the [Iron Hills Soldiers Song here!!!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/110121733408/here-is-the-13th-track-on-the-ongoing-album)  
> Notanightlight also sang the Iron Hills Soldier's song [ here!!!](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/109654879548/here-is-the-12th-of-the-songs-of-sansukh-performed)
> 
> **Playlists**  
> [The Name We've Long Held Back, by Suludemora](http://suludemora.tumblr.com/post/110129832095/the-name-weve-long-held-back-a-legolas-gimli)
> 
>  **New in['The Appendices'](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58630)**  
>  Jeza-red: [Heartless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3331004)  
> LadyKes: [The Duties of Grandmothers](http://squintkes.tumblr.com/post/111619504406/the-duties-of-grandmothers)  
> Determamfidd: [Nanammâ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3351767)  
> Determamfidd: [Ruby Red Wine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3336815)  
> Kailthia: [Meant to Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3413792)
> 
>  **ALSO **ALERT ALERT ALERT:**  
> **  
>  There is a mammoth podfic project underway of this story! The first round of auditions are closed, but they only encapsulated the characters introduced in the first three chapters. If you would like to read one of the characters in this story, [ visit this tumblr page](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com/) and read all about it! Perhaps you are the perfect Thranduil, or the awesome Orla, or the Stonehelm himself!
> 
> This incredible project is the brainchild (and hard HARD work) of [fuckthisimgoingtoerebor](www.fuckthisimgoingtoerebor.tumblr.com) and [heuristicdevice](www.heuristicdevice.tumblr.com), to whom I bow down in worship. Thank you both so much. 
> 
> (As always, if I have forgotten a link, please do not hesitate to let me know!)

"You what?" Frerin looked worried, and Thorin didn't blame him. The story was far-fetched, after all. "But, nadad…"

"I know how it sounds," he said, forcing himself to keep his voice even. The defensiveness leapt too readily to his lips. "But I speak nothing but the truth."

"But how would a living Hobbit – an old living Hobbit – an old living Hobbit that can barely walk and lives on the other side of the world get into the Halls?" Frerin rubbed his forehead, clearly at a loss. "I'm not saying I disbelieve you, but…"

"But you are saying you disbelieve me," Thorin said dryly.

Frerin huffed, stung. "No, I don't! I promise I don't. It's only very, well… unusual."

"Aye, that's one way to describe it," Thorin grunted, and he turned a corner of the twisting, glittering myriad corridors that made up the Halls of Mahal, Frerin bobbing in his wake. His grandfather's forge lay but moments ahead. "I would ask our Maker, but time runs short. Bilbo himself knew nothing of how he came to be in my rooms. He said that he sees me each time he dreams, and that is a disquieting thought. I both long for and dread his return. I must speak to him of Frodo's death, so soon after we have reached such a shaky accord…"

"Wait, he what… accord?" Frerin's nose wrinkled as he thought. "So, he's not happy to see you?"

Thorin turned his head to give his brother a sardonic, loaded look. Frerin tipped his head and fixed him with a knowledgeable eye. "That's no answer, nadad."

Thorin grimaced. "I do not know. I believe it to be more complicated than that. Perhaps part of him was glad to see and speak to me, with his full knowledge. Part of him is hurt, and part of him still strives to maintain his long secrecy, so much a habit of his now that it is as natural as breath. He also seemed angry - as he has just cause to be - but Bilbo can use even his anger as a shield, hiding that which he does not wish others to know. He is a slippery conversationalist when he wishes to be."

"Well, I suppose he did riddle with both Gollum and a dragon," Frerin said, and then patted Thorin's back tentatively. "There, there?"

Thorin paused before Thrór's forge door. "I am well enough," he said, and his voice sounded heavy and pained to his own ears. "I grieve for Frodo, more than anything. To suffer so much and come so far, to be denied by such a foul and ancient evil. The world is cruel."

Frerin's face fell. "Oh, Thorin," he said, and leaned his shoulder against Thorin's for a wordless moment.

Thorin hovered for a moment over that pit of deep despair that had claimed him for so long, his heart dragging him down and sorrow clamouring in his ears. Then Frerin's small fingers settled over the back of his hand, and he drew in a deep breath.

"Thank you, nadad," he said, barely more than a rumble of his chest.

"Any time," Frerin said, hushed and serious. "Do we go in?"

"Aye." Thorin squared his shoulders. "Let us see what else the world holds for us."

The forge was crammed full to bursting with Dwarves. All of Thorin's assembled family and friends paused as he entered and there was a lull in the cacophonous talking that filled the air. Then the noise redoubled as everyone seemed to begin shouting all at once:

"THORIN, THE ELF AND GIMLI, IT ISN'T-"

"THERE IS ANOTHER BLOODY GIANT WHITE ORC STANDING OUTSIDE EREBOR-"

"THORIN, SAM HAS GONE INTO A TOWER CRAMMED FULL OF ORCS AND-"

"EASTERLINGS SURROUNDING DALE, A SECOND ARMY THAT-"

"THE LADY EOWYN, SHE AND MERRY HAVE-"

"AND ARAGORN KEEPS SAYING 'ABOUT TIME' AND I-"

"FARAMIR IS DYING AND HIS FATHER-"

"AND HE LED THE CHARGE, AND THE SINGING-"

Thorin reared backwards, trying to make sense of the hysterical shouting that was coming at him all at once. "Shazara!" he roared, but in the face of the utter din before him he could barely be heard at all. "SHAZARA!"

There was a massive, ear-splitting CRASH!

Silvery little tinkling followed in the suddenly-silent aftermath. Hrera stood to one side, her eyebrows lifted and Thrór's tools skittering all over the floor.

She folded her arms and pinned the assembled multitudes with a glare. "Hush."

Thrór winced. "Dear, really, did you have to use my good toolrack?"

She ignored that. "One at a time, thank you kindly. You," she pointed to Ori. "You were making a hullabaloo, what was it about?"

Ori glanced to Thorin, who held up his hands. _My grandmother is a law unto herself, and under no command of mine_ , he tried to say with his eyes. Ori made a face, as though to say, _fair enough,_ and cleared his throat.

"Éowyn and Merry have joined the ride of the Rohirrim," he said, and Thorin heard Frerin's short sharp inhalation. "Éowyn in disguise and Merry tucked under her cloak. No one else knows," he added sheepishly.

All the assembly drew breath at once, their mouths falling open in surprise. "But – her duty…!" exclaimed Balin, and Thráin was shaking his head.

"Oh brave lady," Frerin whispered, and Thorin reached out and cupped the back of Frerin's neck comfortingly. "Oh, no no _no_."

"Strength, brother." Thorin murmured.

"Oh stop, I'm all right," Frerin said, his voice fiercer than usual. None but Thorin were close enough to see the slight wobbling of the pad of his chin, the hard swallow, or the worry in his blue eyes. "I'm all right."

"Next," Hrera began, but Fíli burst in without waiting for permission.

"Thorin, Frodo isn't dead! He lives! Sam has followed him to the Tower of Cirith Ungol, the poison, it's a paralytic like the one we encountered in Mirkwood, the Orcs found him and he was taken prisoner…"

He barely heard the rest, too preoccupied with the sudden sagging of his knees. Everything seemed muted and hard to hear, and his hand upon Frerin's shoulder was suddenly bearing his weight.

Frerin let out a strangled, "Ooof!" but his young legs bore up bravely under his unexpected burden. "Thorin, you're too heavy, I can't…"

"Say that again," he demanded, and tried to make his shaking legs bear him.

Fíli paused, and then he met his uncle's eyes with such a look of understanding that Thorin instinctively shied from it. He had to force himself to keep looking. "Frodo lives," Fíli said softly. "He lives."

Thorin breathed out slowly, and his heart sang with gratitude. _Thank the Maker. Thank the Maker._

"That's a relief but I'm about to be flattened here," Frerin wheezed, and Thorin shifted his weight hurriedly.

"Are you all right?"

"You weigh a bloody tonne. I'm fine," Frerin managed, and he rubbed his shoulder.

"This is no time to wait around an' watch Thorin have feelings," growled Óin. Thorin nearly snorted at him, made giddy and rude with relief. _Such respect_. "Minas Tirith is burning."

"Burning!" several people exclaimed.

So much for relief. Thorin pulled himself together. Frodo lived, and he would not have to speak the awful words to Bilbo's dear face. Time was scarce. Now, to the rest.

"Faramir is wounded near to death. His father watches him and only him, and will pay no heed to the defence of the city. They are being slaughtered!" Haban said, her voice hard.

"By my beard, it's all happening at once," sighed Víli. "My news is no easier: Dáin has opened the Gates of Erebor and is attempting to fight his way to Dale through a besieging army."

"WHAT?" Balin actually fell back in horror, and Thrór half-stood in shock.

"He what! And left the Mountain unprotected?" Thorin stepped forward, eyes pinned to his brother-in-law. "Tell more of this! When did this happen? Why?"

"This morning, not two hours ago," Víli said, and scratched the back of his neck. "Only just got back, myself."

"Give your report now, and quickly!"

"Well," and Víli's eyes dropped to his feet. "Dáin got word that a second army is marching on Dale, a new fresh army of Easterlings and war-beasts."

Thrór stood, his eyes terrible. "This Dâgalûr is clever. She's kept the Dwarves pinned in the Mountain, making sure we couldn't fortify the city and make it sound and impregnable. The Dale-Men shilly-shallied too long to take refuge in Erebor… and so now Dale lies defenceless, the perfect protected vantage-point to dig in and assail Erebor long-term."

Víli nodded. "The river's right there, and high ground, and cover for a vast number of troops, and food stores. They could sit tight in Dale and use it as their foothold in the North. Because it's not just Erebor in reach if Dale is taken…"

"Long Lake," said Balin, dread in his eyes. "Mirkwood."

"Their forces could combine with the legions in Dol Guldur," said Hrera. "Gondor and Rohan would be surrounded on all sides!"

"Aye," Víli nodded his honey-gold head. "So, Dáin hears that Dale is being threatened, and so opens his gates and leads the armies of the Dwarves through into the valley. They've shut the Gates behind them, too: nothing but rock at their backs, and orcs before them. No way out but to fight. So that's that. It's win - or die."

"Dís went too, didn't she," said Frís, white-faced.

Víli's hand tightened on his knee until the tendons showed like wax ropes. "Yes," he said, tight and clipped.

Kíli leaned his forehead against his father's shoulder, a small tense noise escaping him.

Thorin thought fast. "Two battlefields, each with many fronts," he said. "We must appoint ourselves where we will do the most good."

"I will stay in the Chamber of Sansûkhul," Hrera offered. "I can relay where you are to those who need you, Thorin darling."

"If the stars do not guide us, aye," Ori agreed. "That's a good idea."

"Bifur, go to those underground at Erebor," Thorin commanded. "Lóni, Frár, go with him."

"I'm going to Erebor," Thrór said flatly, and his face was alight with determination. Thráin set his shoulders and also stood, and Frís slipped her hand into his. Víli stood as well, his merry face drawn and hard.

"I'll keep an eye on Dale," said Balin, and behind him Ori and Náli nodded.

"I'm goin' to Gimli," Óin declared, folding his arms. "Try an' stop me."

Haban shook her head. "I'll go back to Gondor. Who's with me?"

"I'll go too," Narvi spoke up, and Thorin gave her a respectful incline of his head.

"I'll come with ye, love," said Gróin, and beside him his brother Fundin sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"Well, I spose you're expecting me to come and do all the work?"

Gróin bristled. "Oh, as though you're ever likely to get off your great lazy backs-"

"Enough," Thorin cut them off. "Fíli, Kíli, return to Frodo and Sam. Take Nori with you again, he is the most skilled at escaping locked rooms."

"I resent that," Nori muttered.

Thorin lifted an eyebrow. "Am I wrong?"

"Nah, didn't say that. Just said I resent it."

"I will be with Óin and Gimli," Thorin said, and turned to Frerin. "You need not come, if battle should…"

"Oh, cram it," Frerin growled. "Let's go."

Dwarves could move as fast as the wind when needed. Thorin led the race to the Chamber of Sansûkhul, his mind curiously blank of all but the pressing urgency of war. He nearly threw himself into his customary place, the stone of the bench worn smooth underneath him, and barely felt Frerin's light weight settling at his side before the stars of the pool were twinkling, glittering, growing in radiance until they bore him away.

He arrived in Middle-Earth in darkness.

Blinking away the starlight, he waited for his sight to adjust. The sounds he could hear were not encouraging: soft cursing, the muffled sounds of earth and stone. He blinked some more, and the spots before his eyes faded.

"This way, now," he heard Bofur say. "It's but a foot or two thick in this place."

"I hope you know what you are doing, Master Dwarf," came a surly voice, thick with a Dalish accent.

"Next time you can dig a tunnel eight miles long in a week," Bofur retorted. "Shut up, this is Dwarf's work. Go… be tall and rude somewhere else, or whatever it is Men do."

"We are beneath the Desolation," Thorin said, frowning. He had trusted Gimlîn-zâram to take him where he was most needed; surely Bofur and the Bizarûnh were not in such immediate danger? Trapped they were, but there was air…

"Duck, Da!" came Gimizh's high voice, panicky and shrill. Thorin whirled, and he could make out a reaching hand coming through the press of collapsed soil, tipped with evil-looking blunt fingers.

"Troll!" someone shouted, and Bofur swore and fell. Gimizh was at his side in seconds, tugging at his father's jacket and urging him out of the way.

The ring of steel could be heard, and Thorin peered through the stifling blackness to see the Dale-Men entering the fray. Orcs pressed through the hole beside their Trollish battering-ram, hissing and spitting in their ugly tongue. Arrows zipped through the air, burying themselves in the walls and ceiling rather more often than in the bodies of the invaders.

Bifur was hovering around the edges of the tunnel, wringing his hands. He met Thorin's eyes briefly, a glance full of dread, but did not speak. Behind him, Lóni and Frár were peering into the darkness. Lóni looked as though he were ready to take up fallen arms and attack the invaders himself, and Frár was tight-faced and unhappy looking.

"Fall back!" shouted one of the Men.

"Where to? It's all rubble back there as well!" Bofur hollered.

"Where else do you recommend we go?" the Man growled, and ran through an Orc before dancing back out of the Troll's range. The mighty beast was growling and snarling, its head turning this way and that as it tried to make out its attackers in the gloom.

"Left!" Gimizh shrieked, and Bofur swung his pick accordingly. An Orc went down with a squeal.

"Have they nearly finished pulling those stones down or what?" Bofur yelled, and Gimizh grabbed his waist and swung him around to face the other way. The pick came down upon an Orc's head again.

"Nearly!" came the shout from far back in the tunnel, and then there was a cheer. "We're through!"

"Get out of here then!" Bofur roared, and then he fumbled down for Gimizh's shoulder. "Run, lad. Get out!"

"Dad, this way!" Gimizh said, tugging on Bofur's sleeve. "Come on!"

"Got to stay an' guard the tunnel, Inùdoy," Bofur insisted stubbornly, his sightless eyes narrowed in determination.

"You can't even see what's comin' at you," Gimizh growled, and he tugged at Bofur's sleeve some more. "Come on, Dad!"

"I've got you covered!" snapped the Man who had spoken earlier, and Thorin recognised Bard, crown Prince of Dale. "Move, Master Dwarf, you are blocking my bowshot."

"Bows, underground?" Frerin said sceptically, but for once it appeared that the circumstances were working for them and not against them. Bofur allowed himself to be dragged through the hole made in the collapsed rubble (Gimizh was quickly learning to describe where to place hands and feet), and then the Orcs descended again. But where before they had free reign, they were forced to attempt the new entrance one by one. Bard picked them off easily.

"Where now?" said a woman, her eyes glittering in the torchlight.

"Erebor's back that way," said Bofur glumly. "So, it's the battlefield or no place else."

"At least we're not trapped any longer," said another with a sigh. "Just need to make our way back along to Dale…"

"Battlefield, I said," Bofur stressed. "Can't you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"There's a lot of movement over our heads right now," Gimizh piped up, and Bofur's hand settled upon his shoulder and squeezed. "Lots of big feet and stamping. The ground is rattly with it."

"I'll take your word for it," said the woman dubiously. Others were looking at the two dwarves with alarm.

"What's going on up there," Bard muttered, and he loosed another arrow into an Orc's teeth. "We are of no use here. We should collapse this rat-hole and travel back to the battlefield."

"And leave these damned Orcs down here to invade our Mountain? Not bloody likely," Bofur returned.

"Dad, we can't stay here though," Gimizh said, and Bofur blew out a breath from between his teeth.

"I'll not be risking your life any further, my lad," he said firmly. "We aren't goin' anywhere near that damn battle."

"There is no other way out!" Bard cried, and he loosed yet another arrow. "And my quiver runs low. Tunnels are not made for longbows, in case you have not noticed Master Dwarf!"

"Dad," Gimizh said, his dirt-smudged face pale and worried.

"Bifur, what is the rumour of the earth, which way?" Thorin shouted, and Bifur ground his teeth.

"The Bizarûnh are right," he said reluctantly. "There is no other way out. The tunnel shifts treacherously now. I can hear the groans of Orc-feet further in, and Dwarves echo further still…"

"That will be the Stonehelm," Frerin whispered.

"They cannot push through the collapsed sections," Bifur sighed. "The only answer is to block this entry and go back along towards the city, or to attempt the Orc's own entry above."

Lóni fisted his hair. "Why did we never build an escape-way? All those years, and not a single secret passage out of the Mountain?"

"Secret passage," Thorin repeated, and then his heart paused in its mad hammering.

Frerin gasped. "Thorin, you don't…"

"Keep them here," Thorin commanded, and then he closed his eyes.

The last he heard was Frár saying in exasperation, "keep them here how?" before the starlight enveloped him, pressing its radiance even through his closed eyelids.

He flashed into the world once more, the starlight sloughing from him like river-water. He was greeted by dark tunnel and the sounds of combat, indistinguishable from those he had just left. He spun in a circle, trying to see through the murky air. Shouts could be heard.

"Fall back!" he heard Jeri shouting. "Fall back!"

"They have the middle of the tunnel, they have blocked the way to Bofur!" the Stonehelm roared. "Press on, press on!"

"They have the numbers, we can't hold them!" came the lighter shout of the Elf, and Thorin could make out the sweep of silver-gold hair in the gloom as Laerophen took down yet another Orc sapper.

"Collapse it!" Thorin shouted, and restrained the urge to reach out and shake his cousin by the coat. "Collapse it and retreat! There is another way, another way out of the mountain!"

"We cannot hold it!" Laerophen cried, and behind him Wee Thorin was breathing hard and fast, the axe still clenched in his little hands and his back pressed against the wall of the tunnel. "Dwarf-prince, the tunnel is lost!"

  


  
  
  


Laerophen and Wee Thorin Dwalinul, by [ Ursubs](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/114785829468/more-sansukh-fanart-wee-thorin-and-laerophen)

  


"No, not while I have breath!" the Stonehelm grated, and Thorin rubbed at his eyes in frustrated rage.

"Get out, and collapse it! Will you endanger Erebor with your stubborn refusal to see truth?" he bellowed. "The secret passage lies over their heads – you can take them where they enter the tunnel! Ambush them from above!"

"We cannot hold! We must fall back to the halls!" Jeri said, and cut down yet another Orc. They clustered like flies on a corpse, skittering and slavering and laughing as they came.

"We do not leave our people!" the Stonehelm retorted, his voice rough with fury. "Would you see them die in the earth? I will hunt down every last one, Mahal be my witness; these scum shall not see the light of another dawn! Not while I have breath!"

"Ahhhh!" Jeri yelped as a blade came too near and opened a cut upon their cheek. "My prince!"

"Thorin Stonehelm, be wary of your Durin temper!" Thorin roared. "Will you lead others into death to sate your rage? Fall back, I say!"

The Stonehelm's face was a grimace of hate and anguish, and he shook his head to clear his eyes of sweat. Finally he whirled and thundered, "back! Fall back!"

"Finally!" Laerophen snapped, and he pushed Wee Thorin along the tunnel with one hand. The Dwarfling was stiff with terror, but he shook himself out of his daze and ran back along the boot-churned ground quickly enough. The Elf followed him, and the Stonehelm and Jeri covered their retreat.

The orcs yelled in triumph and slavered as they came after them. "Dwarf-scum, now you die!" they jeered, their eyes glittering.

"You first," the Stonehelm said bitterly, and his great Morningstar whirled, smashing through a beam with barely a pause and an ear-splitting crunch. Dirt slithered from the ceiling in a trickle over the suddenly-fearful faces of the Orcs, and then the tunnel collapsed with the heavy soft sigh of earth.

Silence descended on the defenders.

Wee Thorin was gulping, great sobs of delayed reaction. "Gimizh," he whimpered, and then his face crumpled and he turned away. Laerophen seemed at a loss for what to do, and he placed a long-fingered hand tentatively on the Dwarfling's shoulder.

"Listen to me, cousin," Thorin urged. "The secret passage, on the Western slopes of the Mountain. It opens into the upper halls. You must take your people there, and fall upon the Orcs from above!"

"We need another way," the Stonehelm said into the muffled hush. "We cannot leave them to die so, swallowed by the ground."

"At least the Orcs can't get in now," Jeri said, and they fingered the cut on their cheek. "Bastard things."

"The secret passage!" Thorin said yet again, and his hands fisted at his sides. "Thorin Stonehelm, remember me, remember the tales you were raised on! The secret passage!"

"Wait," the Stonehelm said slowly, and he raised a hand to his forehead as though he were groping for a memory. "Wait… there is another way out of the Mountain. There's another way in!"

Thorin strangled the urge to knock his head on the wall. "Ach, you and Kíli both, must you repeat the glaringly obvious? Move, or lose them!"

"This way!" The Stonehelm began to race down the now-clear tunnel, and Laerophen shared a confused glance with Jeri, who shrugged and began to charge after him.

"Where," Wee Thorin faltered.

"Come, brave one," Laerophen said, and he squeezed Wee Thorin's shoulder. "The Prince has thought of a plan. Your friend is not yet lost."

"He's always getting lost," Wee Thorin muttered, and then he dashed at his eyes and set his chin. "All right, come on then."

The charge down the tunnel was breathless and grim, and Thorin raced after the living with his heartbeat thudding in his ears. The familiar halls opened up before them, the lights blinding after the unending gloom. At the tunnel mouth were waiting Dwarves, all milling uncertainly. They cried out as the Stonehelm barrelled through into their midst. "Highness, highness!" came the cry, and then shouts of alarm as they realised that no Dale-Men or Bofur accompanied them.

"It is collapsed," the Stonehelm panted, and he gave the assembled a hard stare. "We now go to the aid of Bofur and the Bizarûnh by another way. Leave a guard upon the tunnel mouth in case any of the Orcs dig through the rubble."

"None will be able to pass that," said Jeri with a snort. "They're flat as a Durin's Day cake."

"The rest of you, with me," the Stonehelm continued, voice curt. "We make for the upper Western halls."

Laerophen narrowed his eyes. "Upper? But surely-"

"There is a little-known way," the Stonehelm interrupted him. "A secret way. Do you not recall your history?"

"Oh!" Wee Thorin's eyes widened. "The door!"

"Aye, the door." The Stonehelm pushed through the crowd and began to run once more. "Follow! They may be hard-pressed, and time is scarce!"

"You must stay where it is safe," Laerophen said to Wee Thorin, who swallowed hard but shook his head.

"I'm gonna help," he said bravely. His dark little face was set and determined. "I have to find Gimizh. I'm always getting him outta trouble."

"And so you shall," Laerophen promised. "Go to the Elves. Speak to my second, she has dark skin, long black hair and a red cloak. Her name is Merilin, and she will aid you. Bring her to this secret way with as many of our archers as can be spared from the walls. Make haste now!"

Wee Thorin seemed about to protest, but then he hoisted the too-large axe and scurried away at speed without a word.

"That is well done of him," Thorin said, frowning at this brother of Legolas. The middle child of Thranduil straightened, his elven-fair expression blank and cold as he skimmed his gaze over the crowd of milling Dwarves that streamed after the Stonehelm. It appeared that Laerophen was also undergoing some great change of heart. His previous stiff and haughty courtesy had vanished entirely, and Thorin could now recognise deep worry in those glittering eyes.

  


  
  


Laerophen Thranduilion, by [ Kilisbovv](http://kilisbovv.tumblr.com/post/114517874361/little-sketchy-doodle-y-thing-of-laerophen-for)

  


With a flick of long pale hair, Laerophen ran on after the Stonehelm and the retreating Dwarves. Thorin lowered his head and charged after him.

"You don't know if it'll open," said Frerin, appearing in a flash of light by his side. "Also, I had to go tell grandmother where you were! Can you warn people before you go disappearing like that?"

"Apologies," he answered shortly. "And it shall open from the inside."

"I thought Smaug smashed that side of the mountain," Frerin said, and he picked up his pace.

"He tried," Thorin said, and uncertainty flickered through him for an instant. "He did not succeed."

The corridors twisted and turned as they raced for the upper levels. Dwarves were startled as the Prince led the charge through halls and markets and gathering-places, and many joined in their wake. The Mountain rang with the sound of boots hitting the stone floors, and shouts filled the air. As they neared the small alcoves above the western slopes, new figures joined them, tall and swift and lithe: the elves had arrived.

Laerophen nodded to the leading Elf, a tall archer with dark skin and a long red cloak. Her face was impassive but her eyes were questioning as she inclined her head to her Prince. Behind her, the cohort of Elves snapped to attention. Swords hung at their hips and their bows were looped over their backs.

"What a crowd!" Frerin said, trying not to walk through any of the assembled in the tight, cramped quarters.

"The door," Thorin said to himself. "It should be here…"

The Stonehelm ran his hand over the smooth, seamless wall. No join appeared to show where the magic Dwarf-gate stood. The old arts were strong, and withstood many centuries. The lore was now nearly lost. "What now?" whispered a small voice, and Thorin glanced over to see Wee Thorin panting hard, sticking at Laerophen's side like a small determined burr.

"It must be here," the Stonehelm muttered, and he pushed at the wall half-heartedly. "It must be."

"Will the magic that made it still hold true?" said Laerophen, and he was treated to a hundred scornful Dwarven stares. "Just a question."

"It opens inwardly," Thorin murmured. "' _Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast'…_ "

The Stonehelm straightened. "We need someone of the Company," he said.

"My da was in the Company," Wee Thorin piped up.

"They're all on the walls," said Jeri with a shrug. "You're sure this is the right place?"

"It _must_ be here!" the Stonehelm repeated in frustration.

"Would it only open on Durin's Day, do you think?" Frerin said, and the milling Dwarves around them were beginning to murmur uncertainly. The Elves stood still, their faces blank and expressionless.

"Bombur is inside the Mountain, though," Wee Thorin said, and shrank back when all eyes turned on him. "He can't fight, so he's inside…"

"Get Bombur! Now!" The Stonehelm barked, and pushed again at the wall. Several Dwarves raced away with a clatter of hobnailed boots.

The waiting descended. The Mountain shook again with the impact of crashing boulders, and all fell silent as wails and shouts and screams from without began to reach the ears of the waiting. "The stone is thin here," whispered Frerin.

Thorin reached out and laid a hand upon Frerin's head, sifting his fingers through the blond hair. "Stay with me, and do not hesitate to leave should this become too much," he said, low.

Frerin swallowed. "What about you?"

"I must be here," Thorin said, and he studied the wall again with narrowed eyes. "I must be here."

"Then I must, too," Frerin said, and he set his jaw stubbornly.

Thorin's lips turned up the slightest amount. "I am glad to have you with me, nadad."

A creaking noise alerted them to the arrival of yet more Dwarves, and around the corner came the great sedan chair, wheeled from behind by three sturdy sappers. "What's goin' on?" Bombur asked, glancing at the wall with suspicion. "Why're we here?"

"We need the door to open," the Stonehelm said simply.

"Well, you won't get far by pushing it, it opens towards the inside," Bombur said. "An' it's a little further along that-a-way."

Thorin blinked. "Oh."

"There, between those lanterns," Bombur pointed. "It's a big ole thing, don't know if you'll be able to open it without a thrush and the last light o' Durin's Day, which seems a bit convoluted to me, but what do I know. What's going on?"

"We're going to get Bofur," Jeri told him, and Bombur's round, cheerful face blanched.

"Then I'm comin' too," he growled.

"Bombur, you can barely walk," said Thorin in dismay, but the old Dwarf was struggling out of his chair, his bad leg shaking underneath his weight. "Bombur!"

"I'm comin' too!" Bombur roared, and all fell quiet in surprise. None had ever heard the reticent, merry old Dwarf ever raise his voice, not in all the years of the Mountain. "Bofur is my _brother,_ you think you can stop me? Me? I was there when this damn Mountain was under siege eighty years ago: you think this pathetic bunch of filth will stop me from finding Bofur? Help me up, give me a sword. I'm going too!"

The Stonehelm looked torn, but he nodded his head sharply. "Bombur of the Company, you have that honour and none here have the right to stop you," he grated, but he clearly did not wish for the old Dwarf to endanger himself. Nevertheless, he jerked his head to one of the Dwarves standing beside him. "Give him a weapon."

Bombur took the proffered sword and raised his chin defiantly. "Thank you, my prince," he said.

The Stonehelm nodded again, and as he turned away there was a glint of sadness in his eyes. "I understand him more and more," he was heard to mutter as he ran his hands over the wall again. "No good choices left except those you honour."

"Here." Bombur limped forward, and he tapped at the stone with his sword. "Praps there's an opening word?"

"If there was, it has long been lost," the Stonehelm sighed. "The map is long vanished, and with it any clue as to the magic of these doors. Does any here know the ways of the old stone arts?"

"Óin did," Frerin said, and Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We have no time," he said. "We cannot wait for Óin, he watches with Gimli and Legolas."

Bombur tapped again, and then he let out a soundless 'ahhh.' Stepping back and leaning heavily on his borrowed sword, he nodded to the wall. "The key's still in the wall outside. All we need is for it to turn."

"I can do that!" said a new voice, and Thorin span to see Bomfrís. She held a hand to her side and her hair was dishevelled from her running. Tuäc was fluttering about her head.

The Stonehelm paled dramatically. "Bomfrís, you cannot possibly go out there without-"

"Not me," Bomfrís interrupted with a snort, and Tuäc flapped her wings.

"Me," she said, beak clacking.

"Oh, thank Durin," the Stonehelm breathed, and he stepped forward. "Tuäc, would you do this?"

"Anything to get out from under all this stone," said the raven. She hopped down onto Bomfrís' shoulder, and her head tipped side to side. "A key?"

"Aye."

"Fly out through the western arrow-sconces, it'll be faster," Bomfrís said to her, and the raven clacked her beak again in irritation.

"I know _that_ , I'm not an egg!" With that, the raven took to the air, banking awkwardly in the cramped passage, before it fluttered away with a raucous caw.

"More waiting," Frerin groaned.

"Battles are mostly waiting, you know that nadad," Thorin said distractedly. He was watching the Stonehelm. The prince was stepping close to his sweetheart, his hand lifting hesitantly before falling to his side.

"It's when the waiting stops," Frerin muttered under his breath. "That's the bit I'm never ready for."

"Why did you not stay with the archers?" The Stonehelm said quietly, almost too privately for Thorin to hear.

"There was a message," Bomfrís said, and swallowed. "Dale is under attack from Easterlings. Your father…"

The Stonehelm froze, his blue eyes ringed in white.

"He's opened the Gates and led them out, didn't you hear the singing?" she said in a rush, and then she grabbed at his hand. "Thorin, no, don't look like that! He'll be all right!"

He grabbed at her and crushed her in a hug, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder. "Bomfrís," he said against her bright hair, and she stroked his back with awkward fingers.

"He'll be all right," she repeated. "He's _Dáin Ironfoot_! He'll be all right!"

"He has been warning me for months," he said, half-growling the words. "Months. He knew it might come to this."

At that moment there was a groan of tearing stone. A hole appeared in the wall, a tiny crack of light that spilled into the gloom. "The keyhole!" Jeri exclaimed.

"Oh, Tuäc, good girl," Bomfrís said in a rush.

"Stay here!" said Laerophen to Wee Thorin, his voice urgent and hard. "You must stay here!"

"But…!" the Dwarfling protested, and then he shrank back at the Elf's glare.

Bomfrís looped her father's arm over her shoulders, and gave her sweetheart a rebellious look, as though daring him to comment.

The prince only looked at her with a certain desperation, before he closed his eyes momentarily. "Silence until we fall on them, lest we lose our ambush," was all he said, and then Jeri and he were pulling the door open and piercing cold daylight flooded the dim tunnel.

The ledge – the 'doorstep', as Bilbo had called it - was charred by dragonfire, even decades later, but it still stood undamaged. The leading stairs that snaked down the Mountainside could clearly be seen, leading behind the shoulder of the great Stone Sentinel.

"Oh, what keen eyes you have, Master Baggins," Frerin sing-songed.

Thorin reached out and smacked the back of his head lightly.

Bombur limped heavily as he came out behind the Prince, leaning upon his daughter with every second step. He took a deep breath as he looked out over the Mountain. Below them, as far as Dale, spread a carpet of creeping, glittering, howling Orcs. The second army of Easterlings could be seen at the break of the mountain's arm, advancing inexorably. Crows and vultures wheeled overhead. "Didn't ever think I'd see this view again," he said softly, and Bomfrís rubbed his arm.

"Are you going to manage those stairs?" she asked him, and he waved his hand in dismissal.

"Goin' to do a lot more than that. Ever tell you that I was faster than any of the Company put together?"

"Only six dozen times before I turned ninety," she said, rolling her eyes. Above her head Tuäc the raven circled. "Come on, Da."

It was excruciating to watch the old Dwarrow crawling down the stairway. Bombur panted and swore beneath his breath, sweat dripping into his eyes. Bomfrís said nothing, but helped him where he would let her. The Stonehelm hovered, his expression torn. Finally, Laerophen shared a glance with his second-in-command. "Merilin," he whispered. "This cannot be. He will have no reserves left in him to swing that sword once he reaches the tunnel opening if he should spend them all fighting these steps."

She nodded, and then touched Bomfrís' arm. "Mistress Dwarf," she said, low and musical. "We are stronger than we appear, and we would help your father."

  


  
  


Merilin, by [ Bilbodear](http://bilbodear.tumblr.com/post/113941542160)

  


"Oh no, you're not taking me back!" Bombur wagged a finger at them, red-faced. Laerophen shook his head.

"No, no!" He then addressed both Bomfrís and Bombur equally. "Master Bombur, Lady Bomfrís, let us help. We are taller and swifter and can carry him higher than you can, away from these jolting stairs."

Bombur hesitated.

Bomfrís took one look at his face and then nodded quickly. "Do it," she said, and then rounded on Laerophen. "Don't you dare hurt him!"

He regarded her steadily. "You and I have had our differences, Lady, but I would not hurt your father," he said, cool and collected. Only the light flush on the tips of his ears betrayed him.

She sniffed. "See that you don't." Then she dropped her gaze. "And. Um. Thank you."

He held his hand over his heart, before stooping and together with two other Elves he lifted Bombur. The old Dwarf's considerable weight made them stagger for a moment, and then they straightened and began the long slow climb downwards once more.

"I remember dragging his sorry hide through Mirkwood," Thorin said, folding his arms with a certain satisfaction. "It puts paid to a few scores to watch Mirkwood Elves now do the same."

"Vindictive," Frerin snorted, before he elbowed Thorin. "Come on."

Slowly, the party made their careful quiet way down the stairs. Both Elves were rather red around the cheeks as they neared the final turns. At a few spans from the stairwell's foot the party halted and the Elves carefully set down their burden. Laerophen was obviously stifling a groan, and Merilin unbent her back with a pained expression.

The Stonehelm lifted one hand in warning. Then he motioned in Iglishmêk: _Below, enemy, more-than-counted._

Laerophen shook his head, frowning in annoyance.

"They're below," Bomfrís said, barely more than a breath. "More than can be counted." She turned back to the Prince and motioned, _tunnel,_ following it with the little hook of the fingers that turned it into a question.

The Stonehelm nodded curtly, before he crept as quietly as he was able to the very mouth of the stairs. The shouts and shrieks of the Orcs seemed extremely loud, echoing against the walls of the stairwell. In the distance could be heard snatches and fragments of Dwarven voices raised in song and battle. The prince poked his head out for no more than a couple of seconds, before he drew back again. His face was very pale and very hard as he pressed his back against the wall.

Bomfrís tugged impatiently at his sleeve. "Well?" she mouthed.

He shot her a look full of warning. Then he stepped forward again and lifted both hands. _Tunnel, to the right. Guarded. Enemy._

Bombur set his jaw. "No more than we expected," he muttered.

"What is all this, flapping about, this," and Laerophen waved a hand about in irritation, his voice a hiss. "What does this mean?"

"Shh! It means they're to the right, the tunnel is guarded," Bomfrís whispered.

Jeri gave them both a scathing look, and lifted their finger to their lips in a gesture that needed no translation.

The Stonehelm gathered himself for a moment, and then he drew his sword in one hand. In the other, the great Morningstar dangled, already streaked with black blood.

All assembled did likewise, drawing their weapons and steadying themselves.

The Stonehelm nodded to them once, and then he turned on one heel. With nary a sound, he flew into the fray, Amradamnârab taking out three Orcs before they had even registered that they were under attack.

Frerin flinched at the sound of crushing bone, but he remained at Thorin's side as they pushed through the sudden explosion of violence. The Stonehelm moved through the press of Orcs like a battering ram, his eyes ablaze. Those that survived the encounter with his Morningstar fell under his blade, whirling in its wake. Following came Laerophen and Jeri. The Elf's sleeves were soon soaked to the wrist as his knives danced and leapt. Jeri was cool and professional, taking out each oncoming enemy without expending any unnecessary energy.

Far behind, Bomfrís stood at her father's side, loosing arrow after arrow. Bombur leaned heavily upon his good leg, but his blows still held power as he swung his borrowed sword. His brow was beaded with sweat once more, but his kind eyes were grim and determined. "Du Bekâr!" he roared, and an answering shout rose from the Dwarves that still poured from the stair's mouth.

"Oh!"

Thorin shook his head, but no, there was Bilbo – young, unlined, beautiful Bilbo – standing amidst a battlefield in his prim Shire clothes. His face was a picture of alarm. "Bilbo!" Thorin bellowed. "You dream again!"

"Oh, do tell! Where on this good green earth are we?" the Hobbit snapped, stepping to one side with a certain disgust as an Orc's head went bouncing away. "Another battle? Truly?"

"What, is he here?" Frerin exclaimed.

"Aye," Thorin said, and gripped Frerin's arm. "He stands by that Orc with the teeth embedded in his ear…"

Frerin peered at the Orc for a moment, wincing when Jeri summarily cut the beast down. Then he shrugged and admitted, "I can't see a thing."

Bilbo picked up his feet and ran over to where Thorin stood, skipping half-heartedly here and there to avoid stepping in something unpleasant. "Well, this is… agreeable," he said, rather grumpily. Then he squinted up at the bulk of the Mountain, and his eyes widened. "This is Erebor."

"It has lain under siege for months," Thorin told him.

"What, he's over here now?" Frerin said, and he waved a hand out in the air. It passed straight through the Hobbit's midsection, and he stepped back and slapped (ineffectually) at Frerin's hand.

"Stop that, stop it, that's terribly rude!" he said crossly.

"This is my brother, Frerin," Thorin told him, before laying a hand on Frerin's shoulder. "Don't… no, don't try that again. It is irksome to him."

"I can't believe this," Frerin said, blinking.

"Your brother? No wonder he's rude then," Bilbo said, tossing his head. Then he tipped it, staring thoughtfully at the pair of them. "He looks like Fíli."

Thorin half-smiled. "I am sure Frerin would say that Fíli looks like him, considering that he was first."

Frerin's eyebrows shot up, and then he huffed. "Well, yes. Yes, I would." Then he rubbed the back of his head, his blond hair mussing. "Uh. Hello?"

"So, he can't see me the way you can, eh?" Bilbo turned to face the battlefield now, and oh. Thorin hadn't even realised how he had missed that. The feeling of Bilbo standing by his side. That slight presence and huge personality, united with him against terrible odds. "Well, here's a pretty pickle! This lot can't see you, and your lot can't see me."

"At least I can see you, Kurduluh," Thorin murmured, and Bilbo glanced at him.

"I haven't the faintest what that means, so kindly don't go speaking in languages that others don't understand right in front of them. Or I'll conduct all of our business in Sindarin." Then he cleared his throat. "You look… tense."

Thorin lowered his eyes. "Much has happened since I saw you last. Frodo…"

Bilbo's breath caught. "Yes?"

"He lives, but he is captured. The Ring was not with him," Thorin hastened to say. A terrible look was in Bilbo's eyes: a fire he understood only too well. "Sam has it, for safekeeping's sake."

"He had best give it -" Bilbo broke his sentence off, and then wiped a hand down his face. "No. No."

"Bilbo," Thorin said, worried. "Breathe."

"I'm all right," Bilbo managed, and he shuddered. "Oh, that cursed thing. Once it gets hold of you, it never lets you go."

Thorin gave him a moment, keenly aware of Bilbo's hunched shoulders and Frerin's fidgeting. His brother must have been dying of curiosity, but he was doing an admirable job of holding his tongue. "Frodo lives," he repeated eventually, and watched Bilbo's head nod once as the Hobbit got himself under control.

"Thank you for that," he said after a pause, and he straightened and tugged down his smart little waistcoat with a jerk. Then he gasped. "That's never Bombur, is it?"

Thorin followed his gaze. "Aye, that's Bombur," he said, and grimaced as the old Dwarf narrowly missed being cudgelled by an Orc. Bombur had begun to list dangerously, and the wobble of his bad leg was visible even from a distance. Bomfrís had placed herself right by his shoulder, and he would lean against her every now and then with his free hand, steadying himself. It threw off her aim, but she carried on regardless.

"He's so old," Bilbo said in astonishment, and then he gave a snort. "Well, I suppose I am too. So there's that."

"Bofur is even now below us," said Thorin, and he felt the urgency rise in his chest again, crowding out all thoughts of Frodo and even Gimli. "He dug a tunnel to the Dale-Men, to beg for aid in breaking the siege. They sent a force, but the Orcs found them and collapsed the tunnel in several places. There is no danger of Erebor being invaded any longer, but they remain trapped under the earth. Now they go to save them."

"By using an old trick and an old door, I see. Never thought I'd look upon this view again." Bilbo tapped at his lip with a finger.

"This is the strangest thing," Frerin whispered. "Now I know how Legolas feels when you chat to Gimli."

"Go to the tunnel!" Merilin called to Jeri, who stood keeping the way back to the stairs open. Jeri's green beard was disordered, and their cheeks were red with exertion. "You – Mistress or Master, to the tunnel!"

"Neither!" Jeri retorted. "Neither mistress nor master, an' remember it!"

Merilin came forward lightly, leaping over a crouching Orc and spinning to cut its throat as she ran. Her long black hair swung behind her as she moved. "My sincere apologies, honoured Dwarf: I myself have exchanged Master for Mistress," she said curtly. "They need your strength at the tunnel mouth, and I am of no use in these works of earth and stone. I will hold the stair! Go!"

Jeri gave the tall Elf a startled look, their axe held in hesitating hands. Then the elite guard nodded once and began to cut their way through the press of stinking bodies towards the tunnel-mouth.

  
  
Merilin, by [muse-ical](http://muse-ical.deviantart.com/art/Merilin-534979795)  


It seemed that the extra pair of Dwarven hands were just what was needed. It was a matter of moments before a ragged cheer arose from those clustered around the Orc-tunnel. "We're through!" Laerophen shouted, and there came an answering shout of triumph from the fighting ambushers. Hands reached down into the earth even as the clash and ring of steel continued.

The first to be dragged blinking into the light was a tall Man, so familiar that Bilbo gasped.

"But he'd be long dead, wouldn't he?"

"That is his great-grandson, Bard, Crown Prince of Dale," Thorin said.

"They even gave him the same name: there's a funny thing." Bilbo shook his head. "As like as two peas!"

The Man was clogged with dirt, but he rose out of the ground with a shout and a drawn longbow that sang its deadly song again and again. Soon there were Elves shooting at his side, providing a cover as Dwarves reached in and brought out more of the trapped.

Bifur emerged, as did Lóni and Frár. "That was bloody awful!" Lóni declared. "Keep them put? Keep them put _how_? Did you forget we can't speak to the living?"

Bifur grunted, and hovered over the gaping hole as yet more Men emerged blinking and staggering into the thin daylight.

Finally, a soil-covered hat rose up from the hole and Thorin let out a breath of sheer relief. "Right, point me in their direction, I'm gonna _demolish them_!" Bofur was shouting. "Eight miles, a week's back-breaking work, half of this bloody paddock down my shirt, and these bastards kick it in! Well, I'll show them why a miner's pick has a blade on the other end, damn it!"

"Da, no!" came the high piping voice of Gimizh, and the boy's face could just be made out under his coating of grime. He was rigid with terror. "Wait, there's so many!"

"Good! Then it don't matter where I aim!" Bofur snarled, and he swung his sword wildly before him.

"Bofur, calm yourself!" Thorin shouted. "Bofur, you shall not endanger your son!"

"What is a _child doing in there!_ " Bilbo said in shock. Thorin glanced back at him.

"Dáin sent him to the tunnel to keep him safe – because it was thought to be secure and secret," he said, with bitter appreciation for the irony. "It was an attempt to keep Gimizh out of mischief. This one, though. This one thought it would be a fine idea to creep inside."

"That turned out swimmingly for everybody," Frerin added. Thorin squeezed Frerin's wrist comfortingly as his brother shrank back from the sounds of battle. The blue eyes were adamant however, even if the old horror danced at their edges.

"He's Bofur's son?" Bilbo's mouth dropped open a little, and then to Thorin's surprise, he smiled. "Good. I'm glad he found what he was searching for."

"Let us hope they survive this, and then we can all be glad," Thorin muttered.

"Da!"

Thorin immediately whipped his head around to Gimizh and Bofur, but they still stood whole and unharmed. The Stonehelm, however, froze for a split-second.

Then the Prince began to run back for the stairs. His eyes were ringed in white, and his breath was coming fast and panicked.

"Da, no!"

With a creeping dread, Thorin turned around.

Bombur lay unmoving upon the ground, his daughter shaking his jacket furiously. "Da, get up!" she screamed. "Da, get up!"

  


  
  


Bomfris sees her father, by [ poplitealqueen](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/118545792694/bomfris-daughter-of-alris-if-you-think-this-is)

  


"Oh," Bilbo faltered, and then he vanished.

"Bomfrís!" the Stonehelm howled, and he cut down a slavering Orc even as he stumbled for where Bombur lay.

Bifur took a step forward, and then he fell still. His face was lax in shock. "Nekhushel," he said, his voice flat. "No. No."

Bofur's sightless eyes turned towards the name. "But Bomfrís…" he breathed, soft and disbelieving, and then he reached out and grasped Gimizh tightly, pulling the boy's face against his stomach. "Don't look!"

"Da, I need to see, I need to show you where to," Gimizh babbled, but then Laerophen was there.

"Listen to your father, do not look!" he commanded. "I will take you!"

Bofur was trembling. "Is there any hope that…"

Laerophen let his hand settle upon Bofur's shoulder. "I am sorry," was all he said.

Bofur's hat stooped, and his lips curled away from his teeth as he fought back the sudden storm of new grief. Then he nodded brokenly. "Take him," he said, his voice ravaged. "Take him out o' here."

"We will take you both," Laerophen said, and he gathered up Gimizh in his arms. "The Dale-Men open the way back to the stair and the secret door lies above. We will take you both."

Bofur did not answer as tears began to trail down his face, but he allowed himself to be swept into an Elf's arms. Laerophen barked an order in the liquid Elvish tongue. The archers turned en-masse and began to cover the retreat of the rescuers and the Dale-Men. It was disorganised chaos, but it appeared that most of the trapped had emerged unscathed and were now making their way up the winding hidden stair.

Thorin had no eyes for any of it. All his attention was bent on his fallen companion.

"Da!" Bomfrís shook her father, and shook him, and her braids were coming undone. Strands of her hair were caught in the wetness at eyes and nose as she screamed and begged him to _get up! Get up! Da! Please, please get up!_

"Bomfrís!" The Stonehelm finally made it to her, and he caught her up. She clung to him for a moment, and then she began to fight against him. "Bomfrís, no, we have to go, we have to leave!"

"But, but, I can't leave him there!" she sobbed, and Thorin could not watch this any longer. He could feel the tears on his cheeks, and sorrow lurched in his belly. Frerin was weeping at his side, his lip bitten raw between his teeth. Bifur was as still as stone, his gaze riveted to Bombur's lifeless face.

Lóni bent his head, and Frár carefully encircled him with his arm. The pair flickered with starlight, and then they were gone.

"Bomfrís, come on, please, I cannot lose you!" the Stonehelm pleaded, his voice rough and full of sorrow. " _Please!_ "

Bomfrís threw herself onto her father's body for a brief moment, and kissed his merry, peaceful face.

Then she stood and charged for the stair after the retreating Elves and Men, her eyes streaming.

Frerin touched Thorin's shoulder. "Let's go," he said.

Thorin glanced back at Bifur, who still had not moved. "Bifur," he called softly. "Bifur, when he awakes in the Halls, he will need you."

Bifur's gaze snapped up to Thorin's, and it was nearly wild with grief. Then he crumpled all at once, and the stars bore him away.

"Come on, Thorin," said Frerin, tugging at his sleeve.

Thorin spared a last look for Bombur, lying in the churned earth. The old face was somehow triumphant in death. His hand still clung to the sword, as though in defiance.

"Well fought, gamil bâhûn," he murmured.

Then he closed his eyes.

* * *

"To me! To me!" came the familiar roar, and Thorin shook himself into the world once more. His weariness made him stumble, and his heart felt like it was weighing him down, sinking like lead in his chest. Beside him Frerin was still weeping silently, and he reached out and rested a hand on his brother's neck.

"Where are we now?" Frerin said, through hitching breath.

Thorin looked around at yet another battlefield, the blurring clash of figures barely seen through the mist in his eyes. But no, that was not his sight: these were the winter mists of the North, as familiar to him as the back of his hands. As children he and Frerin had woken to these fogs, thick enough to obscure the sight of Dale from the battlements. He could taste that metallic, musty tang in his mouth that spoke of snow later.

"We're still at home," he murmured, and the clamour of battle rose up through the mist: clashing swords and the shrieks of the wounded. Then he heard the familiar voice once more.

"To me, Dwarves of Erebor! For the North! Baruk Khazâd!"

"Dáin," he whispered.

Sure enough, he could make out the fierce figure of his cousin amongst the press of fighting. Dáin was moving like a Dwarf possessed, his dented armour streaked with black blood, all of it upon his front. He had lost his boar-helm somewhere, and a deep cut was bleeding sluggishly on his cheek. He whirled and darted and kicked, the red axe dealing death with every blow. He appeared to have outpaced the rest of the Dwarves, moving further and further without his guard towards the hazy half-seen shape that was the hill of Dale.

Well, Dáin had always fought as though his life meant little.

"He's slower than he was," he said, and then winced as Dáin crushed an Orc's skull with a blow of his head.

"He's not that slow," Frerin said, and he dashed at his eyes and gulped. "How far have they made it?"

Thorin looked up at the vast bulk of the Mountain, standing some distance away. "They are between Dale and Erebor now. They have punched a hole through the besieging army, and have drawn them away from the Mountain," he said, and frowned. "They stand in danger of being surrounded. How long has this battle raged?"

"That's not an Orc," Frerin pointed to where the new army lay, crouching around Dale's walls. "Those're Men."

"And not Dale-Men," Thorin agreed grimly. "That must be the Easterling army. Let's move."

At that moment a horn rang out. The Dwarves along the valley floor looked up, wondering, and the Orcs and Easterlings milled in confusion. The horn rang out again, brassy and bold, and then the great Dwarf-made Gates of Dale crashed open. With a noise like thunder, the Men poured forth. No infantry, true – all those were now safe within the Mountain with Bard and the Stonehelm – but at least eight hundred of the short, shaggy thick-bodied horses of the North. Upon their backs rode the Dale-Men, horse-bows in their hands and fire in their eyes.

"About bloody time!" Dáin roared, and he lifted Barazanthual. "Again! Let's smash this lot in the middle!"

The Dwarves shouted their agreement, their flagging morale lifting at the sight of the horses streaming down the hill to their aid. Dáin cut through another Orc, and then wiped down his face with his free hand. Blood had spattered across his forehead and lent him a roguish look, staining his white beard.

"Where in Durin's name have you been!" he hollered as the leading horseman came close. Thorin craned his neck to see, and was alarmed to find that the rider was a man of extreme advanced years, wrinkled and age-spotted. A middle-aged woman rode at his side, her face vaguely familiar.

"Where's the army I lent you?" the Man retorted in a dusty voice, and he brought the pommel of his sword down upon an Orc's head, letting the weight do the work for him.

"Underground. Damned Orcs found the tunnel," Dáin said, and whirled to bring Barazanthual in a great spinning arc across an Easterling's chest, sending him reeling backwards to stumble over the fallen bodies that now surrounded the Dwarven King. "They live yet, but we can't rely on 'em."

"See if I lend you anything again," croaked the Man, and behind him the woman fitted an arrow to her bow and felled the Orc that was rushing towards them.

"Nice shot," Dáin said to her, and he grinned fiercely at the Man. "You look bloody terrible."

"And you're the best sight I've seen in months." The Man grinned back. Then he sighed and shook his balding head. "I had to fight the Council, Dáin. They wouldn't send anything – I had to threaten them to get anything done. Half of them might yet oust me."

"Got to see this through first, laddie," Dáin said, and then he patted the Man's knee. "Don't drink to victory before the battle's won, eh? What's done is done, Brand."

"Still." Brand shook his head again. "Damn fools."

"Aye, but we've no short supply of those, ourselves included," Dáin said, and then he hoisted his mighty red axe once more. "Well, nice as this has been, back to work!"

Brand laughed, affection shining in his eyes. "I see your long captivity hasn't affected you much."

"Dáin would have watched him grow up," Frerin whispered. "He would have known him as a boy."

"And more, they have been friends," Thorin said, watching the two aged Kings fighting together. "They have sparred together – look at how they move in concert!"

"Dale, Dale! To me!" Brand shouted, his old voice cracking, and the woman stood in her stirrups to wind her horn. The Dale-Men all shouted and wheeled, their thrush-feathered arrows sprouting in the foreheads of Orcs as they turned towards their King.

Then a foul reek blew across the plain, and they cried out in fear.

"Better not be more of those damn' earthworms," Dáin growled, and he flipped Barazanthual in his fist.

"Look!" the woman cried, and she pointed out across the valley.

Out of the winter mists came a great growl, and Brand's horse whinnied nervously. Another growl, and then the vast looming bulk of a great beast lurched from the fog.

"What in Durin's name," Thorin said through clenched teeth.

"That's a Warg," Frerin said, and he gripped Thorin's sleeve.

"No Warg ever grew so large," Thorin scoffed, but it was weak and he could feel it. For now he could make out greyish fur and huge, claw-tipped paws, a short fang-filled muzzle and eyes filled with a gleeful, intelligent malice.

It was also roughly the size of Shadowfax.

"Some foul art of Sauron," he said, low. "They say he knew the way to breed such monsters, back in bygone days…"

He became aware that the Orcs around them were chanting something, a name, over and over. They slammed the ground with their spears and stamped with their feet, and the slopes of the Mountain echoed it back. "Da-ga-lur…! Da-ga-lur…!"

"It has a rider," Thorin breathed.

Upon the back of the vast Warg sat a great white Orc, thick of arm and massive-shouldered. Scars traced her face and ran down her shoulders and chest, and blood had seeped into those channels to paint them a sickly brownish-red. Her eyes were a terrible pale grey, and upon her head she wore a helm made of a hideously-painted Dwarven skull. Matted, whitish-red hair fell to her shoulders from beneath it.

"Bolg's daughter," Frerin faltered.

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, trying to master the sudden surge of hatred that rose in him and caused his whole mind to be set aflame.

Dáin looked terribly small before the massive beast. His eyes were ringed in white, and he swallowed hard. Then he flicked Barazanthual. "Afternoon," he said, lifting his chin. The show of bravado was near-perfect, but for the pinpricks of his eyes. "Been expecting you."

"Dwarf-King," said the Orc, and she bared her teeth. They were stained reddish-brown, sharp and wicked.

"You speak Westron, there's a surprise," Dáin said, and he grinned savagely. "Didn't think you lot bothered with it."

"No need to speak when blades and teeth do the talking," sneered the Orc.

"Want to come down here an' have a wee conversation?" Dáin said, and he lifted his axe and pointed it directly at her. "I've one or two arguments here for you."

"Little Dwarf-King," cooed the Orc, and she leered, her head swinging this way and that as she regarded Dáin. Her horribly-scarred face was full of contempt and a terrible, slavering glee. "Old Dwarf-King, gristly Dwarf-King. I can hear you creak."

"Dwarves are stone, you'll find," Dáin retorted. "Ain't so nice on the teeth."

"Selga!" Brand barked, and the bow-woman fitted an arrow to her string and aimed at the Orc-chieftess. "Kill her!"

The woman fired, but the Warg span and snapped at them and the arrow flew wide. "More old meat!" Dâgalûr cried, and she raised a mighty barbed flail as the great Warg began to stalk upon the King of Dale and his retainer. "Tough and tasteless! For the stew-pot with you, cook you like old chicken bones!"

"Hold, uncle!" the woman shouted, and she drew and fired again. The arrow struck the Warg's hide, but the beast barely slowed. It snarled and shook, and continued its dreadful stalk.

"Keep shooting!" Brand shouted. "Dale, Dale! To me!"

But unbeknownst to them, as they spoke for those few precious seconds they had been cut off. Orcs and Easterlings had closed the way behind the mammoth Warg, and the horsemen of Dale were barred from approaching their King by a mighty Troll.

The moment Dáin realised this was plain to see on his face. He straightened, and his expression became resigned. "Walked straight into it," he muttered to himself. "That'll teach me to get ahead o' myself."

Dâgalûr began to laugh, low and satisfied. "Easy!" she chortled. "Two old bags of bones for the pot, so easy. Why have we waited? Ironfoot is nothing. Dale is nothing. Look at you! Ancient. Withered. _Nothing!_ "

"Tell that to your great-grandfather," Dáin growled. And lifted Barazanthual. "I clove him nearly in half with _this_. Take a good look. It'll do the same to you."

Dâgalûr snarled wordlessly, fire igniting in her pale eyes.

"Watch out!" Thorin shouted, and not a second too soon. The mighty Warg swung its head around to snap at Dáin, who leapt back with barely a foot to spare. The Warg pressed on, and Dáin hewed at it with huge strokes of the axe that landed upon its muzzle and opened great gashes that stained the grey fur and dripped onto the frozen winter ground.

"Dáin!" Brand gasped, and he spurred his horse on. "Selga, cover me!"

"Uncle, no!" the woman screamed, but Brand was charging, his sword held high and his face alight with steely resolve.

Dáin was hard-pressed. He narrowly dodged the Warg's snapping teeth, and the cruelly-hooked flail whistled as it flew past his face. Thorin could barely watch as the ironfoot caught upon the frozen ground, and his cousin was thrown backwards. He never released his axe even though the breath was knocked out of him, and he used the haft to jam open the ferocious slavering jaws that yawned and gaped for him. "Ugh!" he managed, and turned his face away even as he strained to push the vast head up. "That doesn't half _stink_!"

"Dwarf-King," purred Dâgalûr, her face split in a smile that was nearly beatific. "Now you die."

"Shut… _up_!" Dáin wheezed, and kicked at the Warg's chin with his ironfoot. The beast growled at the blow but kept pressing down upon the haft of Barazanthual with its jaws. Its tongue lolled and writhed around the axe-handle, and drooled over Dáin's face.

Arrows blossomed on the Warg's face, stinging it, and Brand called his war-cry in his old, cracked voice: "For Dale and the North!" He wheeled the sturdy mountain horse to the massive side of the Warg and braced both hands upon the pommel of his sword. Then he pushed the sword into the Warg's side with all his strength.

The huge beast immediately reared backwards, tossing and writhing with all its might. It lashed its tail and thrashed its head blindly. A strangled howl escaped it and its back legs collapsed. Dáin scooted back, wiping the smeared drool from his face with his forearm. His breath was coming hard and his legs were shaking as he managed to roll onto his side. "Brand get out of there!" he roared.

Brand withdrew his sword with a wrench and his horse danced back, eyes rolling in fear. He raised his sword again to deal the killing blow, but the Warg, tossing and thrashing in its mortal throes, swung its gargantuan jaws towards them blindly. Its head collided with the horse and sent it flying.

Brand hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

"Brand!" Dáin screamed.

"Uncle!" the woman cried, her face a rictus of horror. "No! _No_!"

Thorin stared at the King of Dale. His head was bent at an unnatural angle, and he did not stir.

Frerin let out a choked sob and pressed his face into Thorin's side.

The woman, Selga, threw herself off her horse to stumble to the King's side. She grasped at his shoulders and screamed, and then collapsed onto him all at once. Her tears came thick and fast. Then her eyes hardened and she stood in one swift moment and drew an arrow faster than thought.

"To the abyss with you!" she cried, her voice ringing with hate.

The arrow flew directly into the Warg's eye.

The mighty animal fell with a sound like shattering rock, and the Orc-chieftess was thrown from its back. The Warg's head lolled, its huge jaws open and its red tongue hanging from between its teeth. A croak escaped it, and then the great muscles went slack and still.

"You killed my pet, little girl, little house-dweller," Dâgalûr said, her scarred face twisted and ugly as she slowly stood. Her pale eyes fixed upon the woman with dreadful intent.

"And I shall kill you too," Selga said bravely, and she fitted another arrow to her string. Her hands were shaking and tears still ran down her face unchecked. "Foul demon!"

  
  
Selga, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/124860716025/so-i-was-re-reading-chapter-35-of-sansukh-for-no)  


"Demon," sneered Dâgalûr. "Yessssssss, that is what they name me. I shall visit pain on you, little house-dweller. You will cry better tears than these."

"Dáin, get _up_!" Thorin urged. "Dáin! Dáin, King Under the Mountain, you must be the last one standing yet again!"

Dáin was cursing as he managed to stand. He was cradling one arm, and the Warg's teeth had nicked his face once more. He limped slightly as he staggered to his feet. He appeared dazed.

"Should I cut his body, house-girl?" Dâgalûr said, and she took a deliberate step towards Selga. Her teeth bared around a vicious smile. "Shall I hew his head from his brittle old shoulders? Shall I take his bones and make them into my armour?"

"You will die first!" Selga screamed, and she fired another arrow. It made a tang! as Dâgalûr brushed it away with her evil-looking flail. The great Orc took another step towards the shaking woman, towering over her.

"Little crying girl, little house-girl," Dâgalûr said, soft and sweet and sickly. "But we are not in houses now. Now, we are where the demons are. Shall you cry blood next?"

"Leave her," Dáin rumbled, and he hauled himself straight and lifted his axe yet again. "You have business with me."

"Later, Dwarf-King," Dâgalûr said, her eyes still fixed on Selga. "Now I make house-girls cry."

Dáin's eyes fell on the body of Brand, lying broken upon the frozen sod like a discarded doll. Grief crossed his face for an instant.

"Ah, you cared for the brittle bones too, Dwarf-King?" Dâgalûr jeered. "A fortunate King, to escape so easily. He will not see what I do to your house-girl. He will not feel what I do to his old bones. Snap, crack, crunch he will go!" She licked her lips and laughed.

"Take another step towards him," Dáin said softly. Invitingly. "Please try it."

Dâgalûr hesitated, and an unsure expression crossed her face. Dáin Ironfoot was a name to be reckoned with, a name of legend, after all. Then her eyes flickered with that wicked glee once more, and she took another deliberate step towards the prone body of the King.

Dáin smiled. "Thanks awfully."

Then he raised Barazanthual and charged with all the ferocity of a landslide.

Dâgalûr had obviously been expecting his attack, but even she was taken aback by Dáin's savagery. She was pressed back in seconds, forced to duck and weave around and underneath the whistling red blade. She cried out as the axe scored deeply into her shoulder, her flail falling to the icy ground. Drawing a hook-barbed blade from her belt, she lashed out wildly at the Dwarf's face and managed to cut a swathe of Dáin's sodden beard.

"That was my _tusk_ , you-!" Dáin panted, and he redoubled his attack.

"Mahal below," Frerin whispered, and Thorin could only agree in awed silence. For Dáin seemed nearly to be afire with fury, and his blows held all the crispness of his youth and all the cunning of his age. He cornered the giant Orc chieftess at every turn, the axe cutting into her shoulders and arms again and again. He moved with Barazanthual as though it were a partnered dance – as though it were one of the frantic, twirling, wild dances of the Iron Hills.

The axe finally bit into the Dwarf-skull helm, bone shattering and scattering across the battlefield. Shards cut into Dâgalûr's face, and she cried out in fear as the ironfoot kicked her feet out from beneath her. She landed hard, her sword flying from her grip. Before she had collected herself, the red axe was pressed against her throat.

"It ends," Dáin grated, his breath coming hard. "It ends with you."

She stared up at him with her pale, pale eyes. "And with you, Dwarf-King," she said, and her smile was unhinged. "Do you not feel it yet?"

Dáin's old, hard gaze bored into her.

"The poison," she said with obvious delight. "The Warg. Do you not feel it, coursing through your blood? You kill me, Dwarf-King, little stone man. But I kill you too."

"Durin's blood!" Thorin rocked back, horrified. Poison! The slow, bitter death! "It cannot be!"

"A Warg?" Dáin shook his head slightly, his free hand lifting to touch the teeth-marks upon his forehead. "They don't have poisoned teeth…"

"My master can make many things; serpents, beasts, corpses," Dâgalûr mocked him, and she laughed low and long and ugly. "Kill me, Dwarf-King. Your end will follow."

Dáin was still and silent for a moment. Then he smiled grimly. "Ah, no more than I expected. What a way t' go, though. Bloody massive Warg. That's not too bad." And he glared down at Dâgalûr. "You, though. You get to be the last in a long line o' Orcs killed by the Line of Durin. D'you like that?"

She hissed. "Ends with you!"

Dáin laughed again, brash and loud and hearty. It was as though he had sloughed off two hundred years of age to reveal the young and famous warrior beneath. "I have a son! A fine son, a fine boy, and he will be Thorin the Third, called Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain! The Dwarves endure, Orc. We are stone, and we _endure_ , and not you nor any of your kin can stop us from doing as our nature dictates. An' you, you foul hellspawn, you'll be dead an' good riddance. Give my regards to your great-grandfather."

She choked, and then she screamed as Dáin began to lean his weight upon Barazanthual's blade.

It was not quick.

"Thank you for the conversation," he murmured, and then the huge Orc chieftess' screams gurgled away to nothingness.

Dáin bent over his axe-handle, and his head drooped. The moment drew on and on, suspended in the air like the note of a plucked harp-string.

"It's beginning to snow," Frerin whispered.

Flakes settled in Dáin's hair and upon the body of his fallen foe. The giant Warg's corpse lay to one side, and the lady Selga was upon her knees by Brand's body, her tears beginning to freeze upon her face.

Dáin straightened slowly, and he raised his hand again to touch the teethmarks upon his forehead. "Damn," he said quietly.

Then he picked up Barazanthual, still dripping with gore, and limped over to the body of his friend.

"Lady Selga," he said, serious and soft. "Lady Selga, you must arm yourself once more. The battle continues."

"He is dead," she wept, and she smoothed back Brand's wispy white hair.

"And he would want you to live," Dáin said, and he peered up at the slopes of the Mountain. "Nice weather for it, I suppose."

Selga bowed her head as sobs wracked her.

An Easterling, his hair disordered and his face desperate, rushed at the back of the unprotected woman and Dáin cursed and met the attack. His swing was slow and sluggish, and he leaned heavily to one side as he whirled the axe around and below to catch the man in the ribs. The attacker went down, and Dáin panted for a moment. His axe fell to the ground with a thud, the blade biting into the hard-frozen soil.

"Bloody arm," he bit out, and took up the axe with his other hand even as another Orc came at him. He managed to dispatch it, but he lurched heavily to one side after it went down. His hand clamped around his injured arm for a moment, and then he shook his head free of the blood running into his eyes and focused on the shaking form of the Dale-woman.

"Selga, up!" he barked. "To the Mountain! Get to the Mountain! Seek refuge!"

She lifted her head, her face blotched and streaked. "I won't leave him!"

"I'll protect him."

She hesitated, and Dáin chopped off the arm of another Orc, before rounding upon her once more. "You have my word on it! Now, GO!" Dáin roared.

With one last anguished cry Selga kissed Brand's cooling forehead, fumbled for her bow, and ran.

Dáin dragged himself to where Brand lay, and spared a glance for his friend. "Ah, laddie," he said in a wheezing whisper. "Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû. May you rest easy. I'll not let these vultures peck at you."

Time passed in a blur, or so it seemed to Thorin. He could only watch in sorrowing awe as Dáin fended off attack after attack, his movements growing leaden. It was a gradual slowing: the axe whirled with less precision, the blows landed with less power. Each Orc took more time to slay.

"I can't." Frerin muttered. "He. He used to play in these fields with us. We were – we were _children_."

Thorin glanced down to see tears standing in Frerin's eyes. He knew his own were wet.

Dáin paused, clawing for breath. He leaned over the axe and gasped, his body shaking. Then he lurched upright and raised his axe for what seemed the millionth time – and it fell from nerveless fingers.

The oncoming Orc seemed nearly as surprised as Dáin when his sword slid smoothly into the old Dwarf's side.

Dáin choked, and then grasped the Orc's neck and brought him in for a mighty headbutt. The Orc fell, unconscious, and Dáin let out a hoarse cry as the sword slithered out of his flesh.

"Do you wish to," Thorin began. Frerin's hand clamped down on his arm.

"I'm staying," he said through gritted teeth. "I bear witness!"

"Aye," Thorin said, and he could feel the tears seeping into his beard and running down his neck to soak the collar of his tunic. "A hero of our Age is passing."

Dáin staggered and fumbled at the handle of Barazanthual. The axe was slick with blood, and his fingers seemed unable to coordinate. They groped uselessly, and Dáin had to curl them around the handle using his other hand. He swore once or twice, his tongue thick.

Another Orc hissed, and thumped its chest as it came forward.

"Oh Mahal," Dáin groaned, frustration and resignation in the lines of his old, wrinkled face. Then he jerked upright and swung the axe in a wild arc, his whole body turning behind its momentum, to land it in the head of his foe.

It stuck there.

"Damn it all!" Dáin managed, and he tugged futilely at it for a moment. His mismatched feet skittered and staggered as his heaving threw him off balance, the ironfoot catching upon the winter-barren soil. A strange and solemn circle had grown around the dying King, as though even the Orcs could not quite believe that he were still standing. Had they rushed him at once, he would not yet live. But this feat of terrible endurance was worthy of awe, thought Thorin bleakly.

The next Orc to stand forth was a mighty creature with skin like bark and great staples holding his cheek together. He raised his sword and shouted a word in that slavering tongue of Mordor, and Dáin looked up from trying to free his axe. His wound bled freely, and he blinked as though unable to focus.

"Hold yer horses," he said crossly. "I gotta get my axe out of your friend here b'fore I deal with you."

The Orc snarled, and rushed forward.

A foot of shining steel erupted from its throat, and it let out a shocked whine before it slumped over.

" _You will not touch my family,_ " snarled a familiar voice, rough with rage.

"Dís," Dáin breathed, and a true smile crossed his pain-drawn face. Then he began to crumple, ever so slowly, keeling forward like a puppet whose strings have finally been cut after a long performance.

Dís lunged forward and caught him, easing him to the ground. Around them, the roar of the Dwarves filled the air. Erebor's forces had broken through at last. Dwalin could be seen, and Gloin and Orla; Mizim and her knives, Dori and his flail, and Genild and her hammer. The Elvish archers were amongst the fighters, but they did not carry their bows. They were fighting with long swords or slim-bladed twin knives that flashed in the muted fog like swift silver fish. The war-cries rattled the earth, and the Orcs and Easterlings were swept away from the fallen King and the bodies of the great Warg, Dâgalûr, and Brand.

"What in Durin's name have you done to yourself," Dís whispered, her eyes huge and angry. Her hand immediately pressed against his bleeding side, and Dáin shook his head and hissed in agony.

"Leave it, it'll do no good," he croaked.

"Shut up, you've lived through worse than this," Dís snapped. She raised her head and called, "Dwalin! Dwalin! Orla! Glóin! Anyone! We take him back to the Mountain!"

"You'll do nothing o' the sort," Dáin managed, and his voice was slurring. "I said it'd do no good an' I meant it. It's poison, Dís."

She stared at him, her face paling. "No," she said flatly. "I said shut up. Dwalin!"

"Dís!" Dáin felt for her hand, and grasped it tightly when he found it. "Tell Thira… ah! Tell her I did my damndest to come back to her, and… I damn well nearly did. Tell my boy… that… there must always be someone… to clean up the mess…"

"Dáin!" Dís shook his hand fiercely. "You'll tell them yourself!"

"I killed Dâgalûr, though," Dáin said, and he smiled. It was a peaceful smile. "It's done now. I can finally go bop your brother in his… noble nose."

"Dáin, no, shut up," Dís said desperately. "Come now, these dramatics are not like you."

"It was a good fight," Dáin said, and he swallowed hard. His lips were dry, and there was white fluid in the corners of his mouth. His beard looked utterly wrong without both proud tusks standing in his moustache. "Hope they make a song out o' it."

"Songs will sing of the passing of Dáin son of Náin, called Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain and Lord of the Iron Hills," croaked Thorin, and he bowed his head and let his tears fall unchecked. "But they will not sing of what a canny, noble, honest, pig-headed old _bastard_ he could be."

Dís could only bite at her lip and press at his hand. "You _have_ to live," she growled at him.

  
  
Dis and Dain, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/113411182340/the-iron-hills-for-me-chpt-35-of-sans%C3%BBkh-im)  


  
  
The Death of Dain Ironfoot, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/124501012280/with-terrible-dragging-gasps-d%C3%A1in-fought-for-his)  


"Do me," Dáin began to breathe shallowly. Thorin drew Frerin into his arms and they clung together: three siblings watching over their younger cousin in the green valley beneath the shadow of the Mountain, as in long-vanished days of old. "Do me a favour, eh? Don't… let them put me in stone in that… in that great cold mausoleum. Lay me to rest… back home. Put me in red earth… not – not black stone."

Dís sobbed, anguished and uncaring. "Dáin, nadad, stay," she begged him. " _Stay!_ "

"Sister-mine," Dáin said gently, and touched her face with one bloodied finger. "Look after 'em."

She gazed at him through her tears, her face open in a silent cry of grief.

"O I dre…" Dáin managed in a tuneless whisper, and his breath now hissed and bubbled through his mouth. From his nose ran a thick, slow rivulet of blood. "Dream… of jagged… rusty skies, an' her… savage… wild beauty…"

"I can't watch," Frerin choked, but he did not turn away.

With terrible dragging gasps, Dáin fought for his last words. His once-bright blue eyes were fixed upon some distant sight with endless longing. "I see her when… I close my eyes…"

The old voice faded. The grizzled white head slowly drifted to one side.

"The Iron Hills for me," Dís finished, rusty and halting. Then she lowered her face into her hands with a broken wail.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Merilin - Nightingale
> 
> Note: Merilin is a trans elleth.
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Amradamnârab - Death-dealer  
> Kurduluh - my heart  
> Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> gamil bâhûn – old friend  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> nadad - brother  
> Shazara - silence  
> Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû - May Mahal's hammer shield you (Safe travels)  
> Sansûkh(ul) - perfect/pure sight  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Inùdoy - son
> 
>  **Black Speech**  
>  Dâgalûr - Demon
> 
> **...**
> 
> From Appendix A of Lord of the Rings - Durin's Folk:
> 
> [Gandalf said], "now we hear that Dáin has fallen, fighting in Dale again, even while we fought here. I should call that a heavy loss, if it was not a wonder rather that in his great age he could still wield his axe as mightily as they say that he did, standing over the body of King Brand before the Gate of Erebor until the darkness fell."
> 
> ...
> 
> In this story I have reconciled this book canon with the new movie!canon by implying that book-Azog (killed by Dain at Azanulbizar) is in fact movie-Azog's father. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Thank you all so much for your incredible kindness and your reviews and, please put the knives down... uh... we're all friends here right... uhhh....
> 
> *RUNS FOR HER LIFE*


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thank you so much for your patience. This chapter kicked my butt :)
> 
> **ATTENTION ALL![The Trailer for Chapter 1](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com/post/116049929165/with-great-pleasure-we-present-the-trailer-for) of the [Sansukh Podfic](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com) has been released!**
> 
> The [Mighty Sansukh Masterpost!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost) (All fanworks are collected here - songs, art, playlists, fanfiction, headcanons, and so much more!)
> 
>  **NEW ART AND ARTINESS AND SONGINESS AND I'M JUST GONNA LIST IT** (see end-notes for more BC IT DIDN'T FIT)  
>  Flamesburnonthemountainside: TWO new series of fic! [Dain's Pigs](http://archiveofourown.org/series/236484) and [THE DURINS AREN'T AS MAJESTIC AS THEY THINK THEY ARE](http://archiveofourown.org/series/236655). Also - a couple of pics! [Young Thira](http://flamesburnonthemountainside.tumblr.com/post/114442702726/determamfidd-i-seem-to-have-gone-crazy-drawing) and [Thira in court attire](http://flamesburnonthemountainside.tumblr.com/post/114420778526/so-not-the-most-amazing-drawing-ever-but-i-was)  
> Bofurs-wife: [Narvi pinup!](http://bofurs-wife.tumblr.com/post/114298493112/alright-kiddos-narvi-took-some-time-out-of-her)  
> grimminsanity: [Dis' lullaby](http://grimminsanity.tumblr.com/post/114094050010/this-is-a-parody-of-the-song-sleepsong-by-secret)  
> ursubs: [GIMIZH!!!](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/114172966338/so-i-recently-fell-in-love-with-the-fanfic-sansukh)  
> mandel21: [Thranduil and his sons](http://mandel21.tumblr.com/post/114153426196/look-at-this-family-of-nerds-what-a-bunch-of)  
> filiandkiliheirsofdurin: [Why my pride? Why my temper? - Thorin wakes.](http://filiandkiliheirsofdurin.tumblr.com/post/114064407549/why-my-damnable-pride-why-my-temper-my)  
> bilbodear: [Merilin](http://bilbodear.tumblr.com/post/113941542160)  
> fishfingersandscarves: [CONCEPT ART FOR A SANSUKH GRAPHIC NOVEL OMFG](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/113910234520/so-much-concept-art-im-gonna-die-and-never-pass) \- also [PAGE ONE](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/113758786235/did-someone-say-sansukh-graphic-novel-this-pic)  
> Dain-mothafocker: Some truly lovely Frar/Loni smutfics :) [The Nature of Hastiness](http://dain-mothafocka.tumblr.com/post/113811352151/frar-and-loni-pwp-drabble-the-nature-of-hastiness) and [Wicked](http://dain-mothafocka.tumblr.com/post/113904916271/frar-loni-wicked-pwp-lol) (both nsfw)  
> rohnoc: [Heraldic devices for the Line of Durin and others!](http://rohnoc.tumblr.com/post/115739037146/inspired-by-sansukh-and-dain-ironfoots-battle)  
> Aviva0017: [has drawn Older!Dori, complete with Mourning-marks](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/115640441823/so-weve-been-talking-about-the-official-character)!  
> renioferebor: [The Secret To Good Braids](http://renioferebor.tumblr.com/post/115603882389/the-secret-to-good-braids) \- READ THIS OMFG. And sang the [Iron Hills Soldier's Song!](http://renioferebor.tumblr.com/post/114769277644/i-received-my-brand-new-shiny-mic-this-week-since)  
> notanightlight: [has played the Iron Hills Soldiers Song on lap harp!](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/115450499058/i-was-messing-around-with-my-old-lap-harp-and)  
> mephistominion: [has drawn Dis!](http://mephistominion.tumblr.com/post/115430219719/drew-the-lady-dis-during-math-because-why-do-math)  
> lacefedora: sang [I sit beside the fire and think,](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/115803106556/so-god-this-is-embarrassing-i-made-up-a-little) and have written a lovely little Gigolas fic called [A Brief respite](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/115843560411/gigolas-fic-a-brief-respite), and have drawn [the realisation from Ch4](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/115449541321/actually-bilbo-managed-to-say-i-dont-suppose), [Legolas and Gimli,](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/115073836871/look-theyre-colored-and-they-have-a-silly-frame) and WIP [Ch34!](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/116085993911/screen-capture-of-progress-man-thats-a-hideous)  
> fae-of-the-rose: wrote a Narvi & Celebrimbor ficlet, [Never Again](http://fae-of-the-rose.tumblr.com/post/114882857615/never-again%22)  
> whiteteawithhoney: MADE A RECIPE FOR [BROADBEAM DUMPLING SOUP!!!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/114883564593/broadbeam-dumpling-stew-recipe-yay)  
> eustacia1224: is [translating Sansukh into Chinese!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3629268/chapters/8014404)

Thráin watched as the child led his blinded father through the corridors. Bofur's eyes were red-rimmed and his breath hitched in his chest as he stumbled after Gimizh. The boy was sniffling and crying into the crook of his arm but he never faltered, mumbling now and then in a small voice to warn Bofur of a hazard or a stair ahead. Wee Thorin held Gimizh's other hand tightly, his little dark face stubborn and set, as though he would gladly fight any who tried to take his friend away again.

Laerophen watched them with the faint, sad puzzlement of the Elves.

The party that gathered in the upper halls was solemn and hushed. Even the Dale-Men were quiet, mourning their own fellows lost in the dark and the swallowing earth.

People followed each other aimlessly, lost and uncertain and shocked. They stumbled along, or sat upon the bare stone floors and held their heads in their hands. All faces seemed ghostly in the darkness of the Mountain, cast over by shadows thrown by the flickering of the many torches. There was an otherworldly, dreamlike quality to the air, as though none could believe what had just happened.

Bomfrís had her face buried in the Stonehelm's shoulder, and her back trembled and shook as she strangled her sobs. The Prince was hard-faced, but his eyes were full of anguish as he stroked her hair with tender fingertips.

"We must find places for these Dale-folk, and healing for the wounded," he said in a subdued voice, and Jeri nodded their head.

"I'll see to that," they said, and gestured to a couple of the stunned and milling soldiers. They seemed grateful for the direction, and followed the elite guard without protest.

Thráin sighed, and tugged at his beard. "So much loss," he said. "More new faces in Mahal's halls tonight."

Thrór and Frís did not answer, though Thrór's head dipped in gloomy acknowledgement.

"Why didn't I stop him," Bomfrís gasped against the Prince's armour, and he pressed a kiss against her head. "Why didn't I… why did he ever…"

The Stonehelm was wiser than to give her answers she was not ready to hear, and simply held her as she grieved.

"Why's she crying? Where's Bombur?" whispered Wee Thorin, and Gimizh shook his head helplessly. By his side, Bofur choked upon a fresh sob.

There was a sudden loud _boom_ as the great Gates were once more closed, and several of the trembling Dale-Men cried out in alarm. The Stonehelm's eyes whipped up, wary. "They're back inside," he mumbled.

"What was that?" Bard demanded, fast and tense. The Stonehelm opened his mouth to answer, but paused.

In the resounding echoes following the closing of the Gates had come a new sound, growing ever closer. The clank of armour and weapons and the heavy tread of Dwarven feet rang like hammers. Laerophen and Merilin's heads whipped up in unison.

"Aw, what is it _now,"_ Wee Thorin moaned.

Frís' head tilted, and she shared a glance with Thráin. "They come this way," she said.

The Stonehelm swallowed, and slowly turned to meet the new arrivals.

Approaching along the high walkways, a ragged bloodspattered group of warriors marched forward. Their faces were drawn and hard, but many had wet eyes set in their stern expressions. Dwalin, Glóin, Orla, Mizim and Dori stepped in perfect unison: the last of the Company yet stood together.

"Oh no," Thrór breathed.

In the lead was Dís. Her eyes were too terrible to look upon, and her armour was streaked with blood. Behind her stood her ever-faithful shadow: Víli.

In Dís' hands was the Raven Crown.

  


  
  


Dis and the Raven Crown, by [ piyo-13](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com/post/116186586341/your-majesty-you-are-needed-at-the)

  


Thráin met Víli's eyes, and the stonemason gave a single sad shake of his head.

Dís walked straight up to the Stonehelm, and held it before him. In a voice that dragged like steel over gravel, she said, "Your Majesty. You are needed at the battlements."

The Stonehelm, his arms still around Bomfrís, stared at Dís with huge and terrified eyes.

Dís' mouth tightened. "Your Majesty," she repeated, and all winced to hear it. "Take it. Take the damned cursed thing, put it on your head, and get yourself to the battlements. Between the Orcs and the Easterlings we are sorely outnumbered, and Dale is sacked. We have a rout in the valley and we must shelter all of Dale as well as our own people. They must take refuge."

Bomfrís' mouth had dropped open, and she was gazing at the crown as though it were a noose.

"Must save them all," Thrór muttered. "Got to get them all inside…"

"Easy, Adad," Thráin said quietly. "Easy. The lad's just lost his father."

"And Erebor has lost its King," Thrór said, and rubbed his eyes. " _Again_. The Mountain cannot be vulnerable in a time of war. They don't have the luxury of grieving right now!"

"Your tears say otherwise, Thrór," said Frís, and she took a half-step towards her wild-eyed, stony-faced daughter. "And so do theirs."

The Stonehelm's face was parchment-white, and his hands were shaking slightly as he stepped away from Bomfrís and reached reluctantly towards the crown.

Then he let his hand drop. "You will do it," he said to Dis, and she looked taken aback for a moment at the direct order. The Stonehelm did not generally have the confidence, not outside a training room. He had always been too diffident to ever challenge her. "You must crown me, if any must. For who else here knows the weight and cost of it better than you?"

She paused, assessing him for a moment, and their gazes met. The silence stretched.

Then she slowly, ever so slowly, bowed. "As you say, your Majesty."

"Oh, my Dís," Frís cried softly, covering her mouth with her hand. Thráin folded her in his arms and clung to her familiar scent, rising from her golden hair.

"Strength, my daughter," he whispered, and resolutely did not think of how strong she had been, for so long, in the face of such loss. He watched as Dís gripped the crown in her hands for a moment, as though about to tear it asunder.

Then she stepped forward and held it high. "Your father said to tell you: there must always be someone to clean up the mess," she rasped.

The Stonehelm's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he nodded once. He bent his head as the crown was lifted above his black hair, and he let out a puff of breath as it was settled firmly upon his brow. Bomfrís' eyes welled again, and she turned away and closed her eyes. Tears had painted tracks down her cheeks and made furrows in her beard.

  


  
  


Crowning of the Stonehelm, by [ ursubs](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/116197329623/okay-so-completely-blown-away-by-the-new-chapter)

  


The Stonehelm raised his head, the crown gripping his hair. The points dug into his skin and pressed hard around his ears. "Did he…" he began, and Dís took his face in her bloodied hands and pressed her forehead to his, the Raven Crown between them.

"He lies in the crypts for now," Glóin said, and his normally hearty voice was soft and gentle. "Your mother is with him."

The Stonehelm swallowed again, and then he said in a whisper that was nearly beyond hearing: "One old Dwarf was made a King because there was no-one else left. And so in the fullness of time you – you - there is no-one else left."

Dís stepped back and pinned him with her hard, icy gaze. "You will be Thorin the Third, called Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain and Lord of the Iron Hills," she said, and her voice bled with anger and sorrow. It wavered slightly upon his name. "Hail, King Thorin!"

"Hail, King Thorin!" rang the shout from the room, but nearly every eye was wet and many were bent with grief for the loss of Dáin. The new King closed his eyes briefly, and then he looked up at a sudden hand upon his shoulder.

"So, you're number five then," Dwalin said gruffly. His nose was red. "Don't bugger it up. Your da is a tough act to follow, but be yourself an' use the good sense he taught you. We're here. Use us." Behind Dwalin, Glóin gave him an encouraging smile. Orla placed her long-handled axe over her heart and inclined her head formally.

  


  
  


Orla, by [ gremlinloquacious](http://gremlinloquacious.tumblr.com/post/111991368480/here-have-an-orla-before-i-go-to-bed-orla-is)

  


"At your service," Dori said with a prim little bow, echoed by both Mizim and Genild.

The Stonehelm nodded wordlessly at them, and took a slow shuddering intake of breath. Then he set his jaw. "I go to the battlements," he said, and he sent a quick worried glance over at Bomfrís, before drawing himself up straight. His words came with more certainty as he said, "ceremony and grief must wait until later. Now, we bring our people in safe. Open the Gates!"

Dwalin grinned, though it was humourless. "That's a good start." Then he raised his voice to a carrying roar. "Open the Gates!"

Laerophen wrinkled his nose. "Must Dwarves always shout so?"

"Stop bein' weird," Gimizh sniffled, and wiped his nose with his ragged sleeve. "Bet I can shout louderer than you."

"Bet I can," Wee Thorin immediately retorted. "Open the Gates!"

"Bring them in! All o' them!" Glóin echoed, lifting his axe high. "Open the Gates!"

"Open the Gates!" the crowd bellowed, and weapons were raised in the air and brandished in defiance. Their King lay dead, and many others of stout heart also, but they stood yet.

"The Mountain will not fall," Thrór said, and by his sides his hands clenched and unclenched. "It must not fall!"

* * *

"We stay but a moment, nadad," Thorin murmured to Frerin. "To greet them. Then we return to the waters."

"Busy, busy," Frerin murmured back, and rubbed at his nose. It was still a little red.

The corridors were very quiet as the assembled gathered there in silence. Many were absent: still watching the war play out across Middle-Earth, no doubt. Thorin glanced over to see Náin and Daerís at one of the massive gold-bound sepulchre doors, their faces solemn and pale. "What if he barely remembers us?" he heard Nain whisper to his wife, and Daerís only squeezed his hand.

A short distance away by another door stood Bifur, his face still ravaged and blotched from his tears. Bomfur and Genna were huddled close by him, and they shifted from foot to foot eagerly.

Bomfur caught Thorin's eye briefly, and he gave him an absent nod. At Bifur's elbow, Ori fidgeted anxiously. His expression was filled with worry.

Nobody said anything. Nobody needed to. Thorin could still remember the chill upon his new-made skin, waking unclad and shivering and blind. He could remember stumbling upon shaky legs like a foal, full of sorrow and rage and guilt, his Maker's great voice thundering through his flesh.

Finally one of the doors opened with a soft click and a creak. Beyond lay a great sucking blackness, like a void.

Genna immediately ran towards it, disappearing inside with a flash of ginger hair and a cry of welcome. Bomfur was hot on her heels, followed by Bifur.

Náin and Daerís waited by their own appointed door, and Thorin once again wondered how they just _knew._ Would he somehow know, when Dis' time arrived? Would he feel drawn to one of these great cold doors without knowing exactly why? Would the knowledge be suddenly there and _his_ , as though it had always been a part of his memories?

Behind him, Frerin scratched at his face. Tears had dried on his skin, leaving it tacky and itchy under his beard. "Patience, nadad," Thorin told him softly, and Frerin pulled a face.

Suddenly the closed door was thrown open with a _bang!_ , and a figure came striding out. It was a powerful Dwarf in the prime of his years, his chest and head wound about with tattoos and his leg finishing in a cunning peg wrought of purest mithril, his hair bright and red as it had been in days long past.

He was also, unashamedly (even proudly), and completely _naked_.

"Right!" roared Dáin. "Where is he, then!"

"Inùdoy!" cried Daerís, and Dáin rocked back, his hand reaching out.

"Amad…?" he said, stunned. Wonder crossed his face for an instant, and then a huge beaming grin. "Amad!"

"Dáin, Dáin -!" Nain said, half-choking upon the name.

"Adad!" And the family which had been sundered for over two centuries converged upon each other like crashing waves. Dáin caught up his father in his arms and lifted him in the air, their heads pressing together. Then he turned to his mother, tears in his half-blinded eyes, and gave her a resounding kiss. "You… you are here, ahhh, my mother, my father! Your voices! I have never forgotten, never - Mahal save me, I had never thought to hear you again. I have missed you so. I have missed you so!"

"Oh, I am so proud of you," Daerís gasped breathlessly, and she took hold of his face in both her hands and kissed him again. "So proud – so, so proud – oh, _Dain…_ "

"My son, my mighty son, you…" Náin managed in a thick voice, nearly bursting with pride and love. Then he wrapped them both in his arms and held on tightly.

At that moment, a close huddle emerged from the other, open sepulchre door. Bombur had one arm wrapped around his mother, a blanket pulled over his shoulders. Genna was weeping with a smile upon her round, cheery face. Bomfur was at Bombur's other side, and he was simply beaming at all and sundry as though he might never ever stop.

Bifur was tucking the blanket around Bombur's neck and patting at his hair with frantic hands. "Are you sure you can walk there," he was saying. "It's not far, barafun belkul…"

"Bifur, I'm all right," Bombur said, and he fumbled for Bifur's shoulder and shook it reassuringly when he found it. "I can walk now, look! My leg! All better, like your axe!"

"But…" Bifur said wretchedly, wringing his hands. Bombur smiled his sunny smile, no longer old nor pain-drawn.

"I'm all right," he repeated. "Don't fret, Bifur. I'm all right now."

"Nidoy," Genna said, her lip quivering, and she smoothed back his whiskers. "My dearest little one, my brave lad…"

"Why'd you go out there?" Bifur moaned, and Bombur shrugged.

"Had to try an' get to Bofur, didn't I? You'd have done the same."

Bifur shook his head fretfully, and then stilled as Ori placed a hand upon his neck, stroking down the ruffled black-and-white hair.

"Breathe, Bifuruh," he said, and Bombur blinked.

"Ori? Ori!"

"It's me," Ori said, nodding even though Bombur couldn't see him. "Er. Hello, Bombur."

"I wish you hadn't…" Bifur said, and he grimaced. "Ah, ukrâd, nahùba Bombur."

"I'm here now," Bombur said, and he reached out awkwardly, groping for Bifur's arm. When he found it he squeezed it tightly. "Nothing can harm me any more, cousin."

"Aye," Bifur eventually sighed. "I suppose."

Bombur paused, and then he asked in a voice that trembled ever so slightly: "did Bofur and Bomfrís make it out o' there?"

"Aye, they both did, safe and sound," Thorin answered without thinking, and Bombur's head whipped up.

"Thorin!" he cried in astonished joy.

" _What_?" came a shout from the other, tight-knit group.

"Uh-oh," Frerin murmured, and took a hasty step away from Thorin.

"He's _here_? Right, let me at him!" The bellow rang from the good sweet stone like a bell, and Dáin tore himself from his parents to march determinedly in their approximate direction.

"Now, cousin…" Thorin soothed, and he held up his hands. "Cousin, be kind…"

"Come here, you regal bastard, you blasted idiot, you bloody damn fool," Dáin growled, squinting here and there before him as he tried to spy out where Thorin stood. "I have something here that I've been meaning to give to you for a hell of a long time!"

"Time to face the music, nadad," Frerin whispered with a smirk, and Thorin shot him a sour look. Then he sighed and stepped forward, holding out his arms.

"Here I am, take your best shot," he said in resignation.

Dáin let out a massive gust of breath, as though he had been waiting for centuries to let it go. Then he took three great strides towards Thorin and caught him up in a giant bear-hug that knocked all the breath out of him.

Thorin froze for a moment, surprised beyond speech. Then he wrapped his own arms around Dáin's shoulders and pulled him in tight. "Thank you," he said into the closest ear. "Thank you, Dáin. Thank you for caring for them, for rebuilding Erebor, for her greatness and splendour and beauty, for all your sacrifice…"

"Don't thank me yet," Dáin grunted, still embracing Thorin as though he never intended to let go. Thorin, wordless, gripped his cousin close and hoped that Dáin could hear all that he could not find the words to say. _Ironfoot the Restorer, you did what I could not. And you suffered it for my sake. Your endless silent homesickness, your humour, your wisdom, ah - I can never repay..._

Then Dáin drew his head back and delivered a textbook headbutt to Thorin's nose.

"Ach!" Thorin staggered backwards, his hand coming up to his face. "Dáin, damn it, you…!"

"That's been coming to you for nigh-eighty years, cousin," Dáin said, grinning hugely.

Thorin grunted, and pulled his hand away to check for blood. Nothing, thank Mahal. "Fair enough," he conceded.

"Right then, get up, we're going to get a drink," Dáin said, and Náin shook his head.

"Ah, inùdoy? You may wish to put some trousers on first," he said.

"I will hold you to that drink some other day, but now I must go," Thorin said, and he gingerly tested his nose again. "Did you break it?"

"Hold still, coz', you're all a blur. Nah, it's as sharp as it's ever been. Might have made an improvement. You should thank me." Dáin slapped him on the back and beamed at his surly expression. "Go? Go where?"

"Oh, he's always off somewhere. We'll tell you all about it," Ori said, glancing back at Bifur. "Um. Trousers first?"

"Then beer," Dáin said firmly.

"Then beer," Daerís agreed.

* * *

"So that's it," said Sam, looking out across the great scarred plain. He sounded resigned.

"Mahal's balls, beard and boots," Kíli agreed fervently.

They were standing behind the Hobbit upon an outcropping of rock, and for the first time the great open expanse of Gorgoroth could be seen. Fires dotted the massive flatland, and there was no sign of any green living thing. And in the distance glowered a great peak, symmetrical and cone-shaped. Fire and smoke spewed from its mouth.

"Mount Doom." Sam hitched up his pack, and drew Sting. The blade gleamed blue. "Well, they're right on the money when it comes to naming things, an' no mistake. And I suppose that's Barad-Dur. Lovely."

"What's he doing?" Kíli hissed to Fíli. "Frodo's in that tower there! What's he waiting for?"

"He's working up his nerve," Nori said. Then he glanced at the brothers when they gave him a questioning look. "Ain't you ever done any sneaking in a place you're not meant to go? Sam's about to pop into that Orc-infested dungheap and nick their most valuable prisoner. I ain't ever met a thief who was a coward yet."

"Well, now that you say so, it seems obvious," Fíli mused. Nori snorted.

"What to do, what to do," Sam said, jiggling his free hand in his pocket. Then he paused.

"Oh no, wait-" Fíli began, alarmed. But too late: Sam drew the chain from his pocket and with a fumble and a curse, he vanished from sight.

"We just passed _into Mordor itself,"_ Kíli hissed, and he turned about on the spot, searching frantically for any sign of the invisible Hobbit. "He'll be caught!"

"The Eye's looking elsewhere right now," Fíli said, but Nori was already shaking his head.

"That Ring is its own little Eye," he said darkly. "An' it calls louder and louder. Sam can't wear it long. Not even a Hobbit can fail to hear that voice after a time."

"There!" said Kíli, pointing. His sharp eyes had spied the fall of gravel by the foot of the Tower of Cirith Ungol. "There he is!"

"Quick!" barked Nori, and all three raced after that faint trace.

Close by, the Tower huddled like a sullen old man. It showed signs of great beauty, once upon a time. But now it was scarred and patched with rusting iron and crude wood, and filth smeared the grey stone. Graffiti covered the walls in the jagged Orc-tongue, and it stank.

The low door was open, and the Dwarves walked through warily. Although all seemed quiet and deserted, they felt the prickle of eyes upon their back. "It reeks in here," muttered Nori. "I've had enough o' cesspits to last me _another_ lifetime, thanks awfully."

Abruptly Sam reappeared, slipping his hand back into his pocket. His honest eyes were narrowed in suspicion. "Seems like there's been a fight," he muttered to himself, and squinted over at where an Orc lay groaning in a pool of blood. "Nice neighbours to have, an' no mistake! Spose it happens all the time with these foul folk."

At that moment, a shrill wail rose in the air. Sam spun around, gasping. "Well, that's done it!" he cried. "I've rung the front door-bell!"

"Don't put on the Ring!" Fíli shouted. "Hide, Sam! Hide!"

Whether Sam heard him or whether his good Hobbit-sense was at work, Fíli would never know. But Sam did not put the Ring back on. Instead, he scurried under a stair and hid himself under his cloak, sheathing Sting as he did so.

"A great Elf-warrior, I hear!" said an ugly voice. "Gave Her Majesty a nasty prick!"

"Who're you calling a nasty prick," Nori muttered.

"We caught the kitten an' let the cat escape," growled someone else. Two Orcs came into view, one marked with a Red Eye, and the other with a White Moon. "That'll teach you plains-grubbers to come up here an' pretend like you know anything about Her Ladyship."

"An Elf with those terrible bright eyes, with an Elf-sword and an axe, most likely! And he's loose in your bounds, too, and you never spotted him. Very funny, hawr!"

"You shut your mouth, Gorbag!"

"Don't you forget, I saw that runt first. If there's to be any sport, I want in."

"Now, now, I have my orders. Kitten or no, he's not for us. It's more than my belly's worth, or yours, to break 'em. The prisoner is to be kept safe an' intact, under pain of death for every member of the guard, until He sends or comes Himself. That's plain enough, an' what I'm going to do."

"Stripped, eh?" said Gorbag, grinning. "What, nails, teeth, hair an' all?"

"No, none o' that!" snapped the other. "He's wanted safe an' whole."

"Yer a coward, Shagrat," spat Gorbag, and the other Orc sneered.

"Say it again an' I'll slit yer gizzard. All your boys have kindly put 'emselves to sleep. None of them standing around you now!"

Gorbag snarled, but Shagrat only grinned evilly. Finally the other Orc slunk away. Shagrat spat on the stones after him, and then settled against the wall to pick at his teeth with a cruel-looking dagger.

"He's standing in the stair," Kíli whispered. "What do we do?"

"Sam will have to get past him," said Fíli, frowning and studying the lay of the Tower. "This whole thing slopes to the back. I'll wager that Frodo is in the uppermost chamber."

Sam's eyes glittered in the darkness, and then he blinked once, hard. "Right, Mister Frodo," he said through gritted teeth, and then he sprang forward.

Shagrat was taken completely off guard. He fell back against the stair and knocked his head, and then scrambling he began to yelp. Fíli could only guess what he saw in the dim torchlight: a great silent shape, cloaked in a grey shadow, looming against the wavering light behind; in one hand it held a sword, the very light of which was a bitter pain, the other was clutched at its breast, but held concealed some nameless menace of power and doom.

For a moment Shagrat crouched and gaped, and then with a hideous yelp of fear he turned and fled back the way he had come.

Sam shouted in joy at this unexpected flight. "Yes! The Elf-warrior is loose!" he cried. "I'm coming. Just you show me the way up, or I'll skin you!"

"Must remember to tell Óin that I've discovered a vicious Hobbit," Nori mused, stroking his beard. "I'm sure that's worth a bob or two."

"You've a good memory," said Kíli admiringly. "That was ages ago."

Nori gave a modest shrug. "Got to, in my line o' work."

Sam chased Shagrat all the way up the rickety stairs, and kicked as many of the prone Orcs over the sides as he could. "Honorary Dwarf indeed," Fíli said, a little nonplussed at his ferocious ascent.

"Very nice," Nori purred. "Although he coulda taken the opportunity to knife a few of these buggers as he went. Orcs survive falls better than you'd think. They're worse than cockroaches."

Up, and up they went, and higher still. Finally they reached a small turret room, and Sam looked about in frantic dismay. "Mister Frodo!" he cried. "Mister Frodo!"

"You stop your squeaking, you dunghill rat!" snarled a voice, and Shagrat slunk out again, still shivering from fright. Sam ducked back into the stairwell. "I'll come an' have a look at you. P'raps that shiny shirt is a fair price for all my pains keepin' you alive an' unspoiled, eh?"

Then the Orc reached up and pulled down a ladder from the ceiling. It unfolded with a clang, and he began to scramble up. "You lie quiet, or you'll pay for it! You've not got long to live in peace, I guess; but if you don't want the fun to begin right now, keep your trap shut, see?"

There was a whimper, and Shagrat disappeared into the above room. "Stop yer whining! Take that! There's a reminder for you!"

There was a sound like the crack of a whip.

Sam's face froze. "Uh oh," Kíli whispered.

"Wouldn't want to be Shagrat right now," agreed Nori.

Sam _exploded_ into movement, Sting flashing in the darkness. He scampered up the ladder faster than thought. The Dwarves heard the slick sound of metal entering flesh, and then the gasping wheeze of a last breath.

Then Shagrat's corpse bounced down the ladder to land in a crumpled heap.

"Not bad," Nori said approvingly. "Although I'm taking points off for bein' seen."

* * *

Hrera looked up from her silver wire-twisting as they approached. She was seated comfortably in a large high-backed chair that had been dragged into the Chamber of Sansukhul because: 'if you think I am sitting for hour after hour on cold stone all alone, then next you will find that I am sitting on _you.'_

The chair had been produced in record time. There was even a cushion.

"Back again?" Hrera looked disapproving – more so than usual.

"I must," Thorin said wearily. "The battles still continue, and I have not yet found my star."

"Oh, I'm not in the least bit worried for him," she sniffed, and smoothed back his hair. "Don't push yourself too far again, Thorin darling."

He ducked his head obediently, allowing her to arrange his hair to her satisfaction. "I will not," he said, and yawned.

She tweaked his ear. "I'm sure. Off you go then. If you _must."_

Thorin gave his grandmother a tight smile of apology and fell upon his bench. He heard Frerin whispering a few words to Hrera as the stars began their mesmerising dance. Then all was drowned by the ringing in his ears as he was hurtled through the star-pool towards Middle-Earth once more.

The shrieking was the first sound. Thorin opened his eyes and then winced as the cold, cutting light of day stabbed into them. There was no sign of the sun. The sky billowed with black clouds, roiling and evil-looking.

"Where…" said Frerin, squinting and shading his eyes.

"Give chase! Give chase!" came the cry, and Thorin turned to see Aragorn with his sword drawn, urging the Grey Company onwards. "We near the port of Pelargir! Drive these allies of darkness onwards, drive them into the sea!"

"Ai-oi, come and take a bite of my axe, you servants of Sauron!" came the familiar rumbling laugh, and Thorin's heart leaped as he turned to behold his star. Gimli was standing planted firmly upon a small rise, his axe dealing blow after blow. Behind him, the Elf stood like a spear of pale fire, his bow picking off more distant targets.

"These aren't Orcs, these are Umbari," said Thorin, frowning. "Corsairs."

"I see you've finally made it, then," said Óin, and he jerked his head towards Gimli. "Pleasure to watch him work, ain't it?"

"Aye." Thorin watched for a moment as Gimli cut down a corsair, his axe glinting in the dim daylight. His star spun on one foot to sink the blade into another, unstoppable as a charging bull. He pulled his axe free with a jerk, and then whirled it over his head for a moment, the blood spattering in an arc upon the faces of his foes. His hair was caught in an unfamiliar braid, and Thorin frowned at it for a moment.

"Twenty-one!" Legolas called, and Gimli laughed again in delight.

"I'm ahead o' you again, laddie, better catch up! I make my count out at twenty-three!"

Legolas drew his bow, fast as thought, and the corsair that was rushing behind Gimli fell to the ground with an arrow in his throat. "Better watch your back, meleth nîn," Legolas panted, grinning hard.

"Why, when I have you to do that for me?" Gimli returned the fierce grin, his eyes bright.

Aragorn glanced back at them, and rolled his eyes. "To the ships!" he cried, and then sprang forward. Andúril gleamed like a tongue of white fire.

"Boats again," Gimli groaned, and Legolas' laugh pealed out over the fighting, a clear bell of silver.

"I shall hold your hand, shall I?"

"Oh fer cryin' out loud," Óin muttered, and tugged at his beard. "Sickening, the pair of them."

"Have they been like this the whole time?" Thorin said. Beside him, Frerin snorted.

"They're flirting with axe an' bow, is what they're doing," Óin grumbled. "Gimli's putting as much flair and polish on those swings as he possibly can without taking his own eye out, and the Elf's more damn flamboyant than a peacock. How do they twist and leap like that? Are they part cat?"

Legolas twirled and turned, his hair flying out in a fan behind him as he drew his knives. He moved like liquid music, almost too graceful to be thought of as fighting if it were not for the trail of fallen bodies he left in his wake.

  


  
  


Legolas fighting, by [ val-kiri](http://val-kiri.tumblr.com/post/115991436049/legolas-being-a-pretty-boy-showoff-dets-36th)

  


Gimli paused for a moment, his axe raised halfway, to watch the Elf move for a second.

"Keep your mind on what you are doing," Thorin told him.

"Ah, my king," Gimli said, and smiled broadly. "You cannot blame me for admiring such skill."

"I do not think it is exactly his _skill_ that you admire so," Thorin grunted.

Gimli's smile turned arch. "Ah, well, you cannot blame me for _that,_ either. Weren't you the one who urged us on?"

Thorin folded his arms and harrumphed.

"Bloody sickening," Óin muttered again, and then he waved a hand down towards the river some small distance below, glittering like a silver snake. "There's the mouth of Anduin. These bastards are sailing up the river."

"They mean to fall upon Gondor unforeseen," Thorin said, and then an unearthly reek filled the air. The wind rose with a sudden howl, blowing back the hair of the fighters, clawing at them with chilly fingers.

Then the greenish sickly glow of the restless dead began to rise like marsh-mist from the earth. Aragorn paused, and then lifted Andúril high. It gleamed against the sullen sky. "Take their ships!"

The corsairs aboard the ships below laughed and jeered. "Who's gonna stop us then!" one shouted, his rough voice raucous from bellowing over sea-winds. "Your ragged bunch? Who are you to deny us passage to Gondor, eh?"

"Legolas, fire a warning shot past the bo'sun's ear," Aragorn said, and Legolas drew his bow once more.

"Mind your aim," Gimli murmured, close by Legolas' side.

The shot flew wide, and hit a sailor in the throat. He pulled an extraordinary face, and keeled over dead.

"Whoops," said Gimli innocently. "Treacherous winds, aren't they?"

Legolas glared down at Gimli for a moment, but could not maintain it for long. His laugh pealed out, even as the corsairs gaped at their dead comrade. "Ah, meleth nîn, not the dread of death nor the sharing of heart's secrets can daunt the spirit of a Dwarf!"

Gimli's nose wrinkled. "Sea-sickness might do it. Boats. Eurgh." Then he shook his head and raised his voice to a carrying roar, addressing the corsairs once more. "Well, we warned you! Prepare to be boarded!"

"Sounds exciting," Legolas murmured. Gimli choked and the apples of his cheeks flushed almost as bright as his beard.

"Elves," he muttered with a scandalised huff and raised his axe. There was a glitter in his dark eyes, however, that told Thorin that this particular taunting arrow had found its mark.

"Boarded?" jeered the corsairs. "By you and whose army?"

Aragorn smiled. "This army."

The King of the Dead materialised in a sudden blast of grave-cold air, and his skeletal face was open in a snarl of rage. His ancient sword rose, and behind him the army of the Dead seeped into the world like a cold sickly poison. They swarmed the ships within seconds.

"Useful, aren't they," Gimli commented, leaning on his axe. Legolas' answering smile was soft and secret.

Óin glowered at them both. "Pair o' idiots an' moon-drunk fools," he grumbled. "I feel ill. Thorin, do I really have to watch these two make calf-eyes at each other? Surely they can do that wi'out an audience."

"I think it's sweet," Frerin said, tossing his head and looking up at Óin in defiance.

"Sweet," said Óin flatly. "Gimli. _Sweet_."

Thorin tried very hard to turn the escaping chuckle into a cough.

"Sweet, oh aye, that's what every warrior dreams o' being. _Sweet._ Bloody Elves and bloody moonlight and stupid wars and more bloody Elves, starlight and trees and _poetry_ , Mahal damn it all," Óin muttered into his beard, his face thunderous. He continued to grumble nonstop as the Grey Company boarded their new ships and urged their faithful horses into the holds.

"Does it upset you so much?" Frerin asked, and Óin pulled a face.

"No – well, not any more," he conceded. "Just wish that my fool nephew had a bit more discretion! They're right out in the open where anybody can see!"

"They have not done anything improper," Thorin said. Then he hesitated. "Have they?"

"You wouldn't say that if you saw the way they _look_ at each other," Óin muttered. "You feel like you're intruding just by breathing the same air. Worse than Glóin on his wedding day, and I make no exaggeration."

Once upon the ships they came across a new and grievous horror. There were slaves tied to the oars, miserable and ragged. With soft voices and gentle hands the Grey Company loosed them and helped them stand, bringing them ashore to lie upon the sweet grass. They fell upon the food given them from the packs, and Thorin could hardly look at some of their faces. They had a look in their eyes that reminded him all too clearly of Thráin in his darkest moments.

"Easy, lass," Gimli said gently as a rail-thin woman began to choke upon the water he gave her. Her parched mouth was too dry even for her small sips. "Easy now. I don't want it back. It's all yours."

Aragorn's face became hard with outrage. "Go, and be free," he said to them, and they looked at him uncomprehending.

"I will stay," said one of the Dúnedain, and he turned to the weary, frightened slaves and addressed them, his dark careworn face earnest. "If you will have me, I will show you to the dwellings of the folk in this valley. There we may find food and rest, and comfort long denied."

"It's a long way back to those towns," Frerin whispered, and Thorin bent his head.

"Aye," he said, low and angry. "But a long walk in freedom."

The former slaves conferred for a moment, and then one tall woman stepped forward. She had a brand upon her face, but she stood as straight and held her head as high as a Queen. "We will go with you," she said. "But you alone. No more."

"When the terror of the Dead host has lifted from this land, word will spread of the Heir of Elendil," Aragorn told them. "Take our pack animals, our supplies, and give them this sign. Tell the people of the Lebennin that the King gives you leave to dwell here, as free souls. I go now to battle. If all goes well, you shall be cared for and upheld as citizens of Gondor, if it is what you wish. If you would return to your homes, that will also be done. My word upon it."

The woman held his eyes with hers for a long, wary pause. Disbelief warred with amazement for a moment, and then she raised her hand in a strange salute. "May luck favour you in your wars," she said evenly. Then she turned and led the crowded bunch of former slaves away from the river. The young Ranger nodded to Aragorn once, and then strode off after them.

"That," Gimli said, and he bowed his bright head in sorrow. "Ah, just when I think I have seen all the cruelties of this world."

"Nekhushel," Thorin said, watching them depart, limping and fearful and yet hopeful for all that. Rage burned cold in his stomach, curbed only by Frerin's slight presence at his side. "There are no words in any tongue to encompass such horror."

Legolas placed a hand upon Gimli's shoulder, and squeezed reassuringly.

"Sauron is the author of this, and he is crueller yet. Not all those that we fight do so of their own will. We fight for their freedom as much as our own," Aragorn said, and grim hatred was in his eyes. "Raise sail! We make for the White City!"

Slowly their ship cast away from the riverbank, and began to make their way upriver. The oars were now manned by the Grey Company, who pulled with a will against the current.

"Slow going," Gimli said gloomily, looking out over the water. "I'd take my turn at an oar, but these fellows don't seem to need a novice about. Besides, no doubt I'd pull too hard – assuming my feet reached the rests!"

Legolas leapt up to the higher deck, his hair blowing back in the salty air. "Up with your beard, Durin's son!" he said, holding onto a rope and leaning out over the waters. "For thus it is spoken: _Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn."_

"Very pretty, and not very helpful," Gimli grunted in answer, and stamped his heavy boots against the deck once or twice. Then he nodded in satisfaction. "Well, they don't seem likely to fall apart underneath us, so there's that."

Legolas smiled and swung back onto the deck, light as thistledown. "Would we all be treated to the sight of a Dwarf trudging along the riverbed in full armour? For heavy as you are, I would think you would sink like a stone."

"Excuse _you_ , I can swim like a fish!" Gimli exclaimed. "The Mountain stands upon the mouth of the River Running, in case you have not remembered!"

"Ah, so that explains your… unusual penchant for water," Legolas teased. "I saw as much in Edoras."

"You saw-? Impertinence! You shameless Elves!" Gimli laughed. "So it is my turn to ask: am I so ugly to your eyes?"

"And now you seek to make me eat my own words," Legolas said, shaking his head in mock-sadness as the ships leapt into the foam, their prows pointed for Gondor. "Shall I answer as you did? For I surely find you as fair as any horse in Rohan!"

"Cheek," Gimli said, chuckling. "Arod's mane is not half as fine as mine. But I thank you for cheering my spirits, nevertheless." Then he shaded his eyes. "Ah, Aragorn is having that black banner of his tied to the big pole."

Legolas' mouth twitched. "The mast, Gimli."

"It's the biggest pole, I'll call it what it is," Gimli retorted. "Ach, look, the standard shines in the sun! That's mithril, or I'm a Hobbit. Look, Legolas!"

Legolas turned to peer up at the flapping banner, and then he stiffened like a statue. His eyes grew wide.

"So that's what Arwen sent him. A kingly gift indeed," Gimli mused, still looking up at the standard with some appreciation. "The White Tree and the star of Elendil, if I'm not mistaken. Would have taken some doing: Mithril is finer than gold, and though it is stronger than steel it does not make an easy thread to sew! If I'd known, I would have spoken to her in Rivendell. Why did I not know she delighted in the crafting of metals? That's a masterwork an' no mistake… Legolas?"

The Elf was still, his whole body trembling like a deer startled in the forest. His pupils were deep pinpricks. His breath was whispering fast through his lips.

Gimli frowned. "Legolas, laddie, what is it? Can you answer me? Legolas? Legolas!"

For the Elf did not respond. He seemed to lean into the sea-winds, as though yearning for their touch.

"Legolas!" Now properly worried, Gimli caught Legolas' limp hand and chafed it between his rough palms. "Legolas, are you well? Please, ghivasha, please answer me! Legolas!"

Finally Legolas shook himself and blinked like a sleeper awakening from a strange dream. "Ah," he said faintly. Then all at once his knees gave out and he collapsed.

Gimli swore and caught him, easing him to the deck. "Tell me, what is it," he said, his face anxious and urgent. "What can I do? What ails you, kurdulu?"

"Talk, yes," Legolas faltered, and he ran a hand over his eyes. "Talk… talk to me. Loudly. You must be louder!"

Gimli stared at the Elf, and then he seemed to pull himself together. "Well, that's not a problem, not for me at any rate," he said, and no sign of his great worry was in his deep, rolling voice, though his eyes were glittering anxiously. "My mother often says that I am louder than a brace of War-pigs. And my sister would then add that I was twice as fragrant. A pleasant girl, my sister. A rare one, but with a tongue as sharp as her knives! I will not inflict her upon you without a stiff drink or two first, an' believe you me you'll need it. But she's responsible for the joy that is my nephew, an' so I must put up with her."

"You… do not fool me," Legolas said, and his eyes darted away, up to the sky. "You love your sister."

"Aye, the way one eventually grows fond of sparks from the forge: they sting, but they're pretty," Gimli said, and he gripped Legolas' hand tighter. "Did I ever mention that I am the worst student Master Garin ever set to smithing? Give me an axe an' I can wield it, give me a pick an' I can mine the ore - but don't ever ask me to make one. I always batter and shatter the steel when hammering. It's the swing, you see; I've spent so long working on my axe-work that I habitually wield a hammer as though it must cut through armour! I'm a dab hand with jewels, though. My mother is a jeweller, you know."

"A great… beauty," Legolas croaked. His eyes tracked over the sky wildly, as though searching.

"Aye, you rude an' ignorant Elf. My Amad's still a famous beauty, even in these her silver days. We call 'em silver days because our hair and beard fades to silver. My father calls her 'jewel' – that's what her name means, Mizim. It means 'jewel'."

"Surely you are not meant to tell me that," Legolas said, and he closed his eyes and wrenched his head away from the aching blue above. "Tell me more regardless. Your voice is the earth, and I can stand upon it. Tell me more."

"No, he _really_ isn't meant to tell Legolas that," Frerin said, tugging on one blond braid. Thorin pursed his lips in thought.

"What ails him?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Ah, surely my love has not brought you to this pass already," Gimli breathed to himself, barely audible even to Thorin's ears. His chin dipped to his chest for a moment.

"Gimli, speak," Thorin urged, glancing down at the Elf. "It helps him. Call him back, my star!"

Gimli was still for another heartbeat. Then he raised his head determinedly and began his chatter again, his voice once more rumbling and confident: "Aye, but you are my One, an' there's a little wiggle room to be found here. There'll be a few who tie their beards in knots over an Elf knowing our ways and words, certainly. But others will agree that since you belong to a Dwarf and he to you, you should understand him. So. First lesson. Mizim means jewel."

"What about yours?" Legolas said, and he pressed his face closer to Gimli's chest where his voice resonated the loudest. "Does yours mean anything?"

Gimli hesitated.

"Not your hidden name," Legolas said hurriedly. "Your… daylight name, I remember you called it? Your Sky-name?"

"Oh." Gimli coughed. "Aye. Mine means 'star'."

Legolas actually pushed himself up on wobbling arms to look at Gimli full in the face. "Star! Truly?"

"Aye, in Khuzdul, 'Gimli' means 'star'." Embarrassed, Gimli rubbed his chin, his beard rasping. "I'm told that in an old dialect of the Northmen, it also means 'fire'."

"How appropriate," Legolas said in wonderment, and let his head fall back onto Gimli's shoulder. "How very appropriate. Elves have ever loved the stars."

Óin rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Legolas, lad, are you back with me?" Gimli said, and he rubbed the Elf's long fingers between his palms some more. "You gave me a fright just now. What happened?"

"She warned me," Legolas said, and he buried his face against Gimli's brigandine. "She _warned_ me what would happen. Beware of the sea, she said. Why did I hear that cry, and why now? Why have they called me, so soon after I have been given such cause to stay?"

"The Lady?" Gimli smoothed back Legolas' fine hair with fingers that spoke all too eloquently of his concern. In his face was a deep awe that he was permitted to touch it at all. "In her rhyme?"

Legolas shuddered. "The gulls."

"If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore," Gimli said slowly, quoting from Galadriel's cryptic message. Legolas trembled like a leaf scattering in the wind. "Legolas, what does this-"

He got no further. For Legolas pushed up onto shaking arms, and pressed his mouth against Gimli's in a move that spoke more of desperation than of desire.

Óin grunted. "Took far too much flirtin' to get to that point. That'll shut 'em up."

Frerin's mouth snapped shut. "Um," he said, and Thorin was slightly amused to see his ears glowing red.

"Are you embarrassed, nadad?" he said, and Frerin scowled.

"I am _not_ ," he said, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "It's just… it's not _private."_

"Bloody Elves," Óin sighed.

It was true. The Grey Company had all been moving about, manning their oars, pulling on ropes and angling sails this way and that. Now ropes had become slack as their handlers stood and gaped at the astonishing sight before them.

Aragorn let out a massive gusting sigh, and pressed his head against the mast. " _Finally."_

Halbarad glanced at his leader and kinsman. "This is… known to you?"

"It is known to half Rohan, if the truth were told," Aragorn said, his head still leaning against the mast. His eyes were closed. "They are the most oblivious of companions. Denser than oak or stone, the pair of them! Yet I would not change them, true and great of heart as they are. Though perhaps not keen of sight!"

"An Elf and a Dwarf?" Halbarad said dubiously.

"Many strange marvels may come to pass in the last days of this Age," Elrohir murmured. "The days of the Elves are waning. The Dwarves dwindle in number year by year. Perhaps we will at last find understanding between us, before the opportunity vanishes forevermore."

Thorin blinked, and then frowned up at the Half-Elven lord, standing with his brother. The Peredhil twins neither looked disgusted nor taken-aback; and then Thorin recalled Elrohir's sharp grey eyes darting between Legolas and Gimli upon the Dimholt road. "Hmm," he said, still frowning. "It appears that Gimli will not be shunned by Elvenkind after all."

"They've got Man mixed in," Frerin reminded him. "And Maia, if you believe the oldest tales."

"Bet they're related to Gandalf," Óin muttered. "Nosey parkers, the lot of 'em. Shameless."

"Their father has the gift of foresight," Thorin said, studying them. Elladan bent his head to whisper something in Elrohir's ear, and the brothers shared a quick, conspiratorial smile. "Who knows what gifts these two may have?"

"Need a ring for seein' the future, and even then it's not much good," Óin said, shrugging. "Elrond didn't foretell anything about my nephew and bloody Thranduil's son locking lips on a corsair ship, did he?"

"I - I very much doubt it," Thorin said, and resolutely strangled the inappropriate chuckle that threatened to rise up from his belly. Now was _not_ the time.

"Are they _done?"_ Frerin whined.

Óin looked over his shoulder, and then made a sound of relief. "Thank Mahal. They're done."

Gimli had his brow pressed against Legolas', and his breath was coming slightly faster. "Like he'd just run all over Rohan again," Óin snorted.

Legolas lifted a finger and traced the sweep of Gimli's moustache. Gimli's breath hitched, but he did not protest. "Oh, that's even worse!" Frerin cried.

"Do you want to leave?" Thorin suggested, and Frerin shot him a very hurt look. "All right, nadad, it was only an idea."

"The gulls," Legolas said indistinctly, and he sagged in Gimli's arms. "Alas for the gulls."

  


  
  


After the Gull's Cry, by [ lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/116357385186/gigolas-doodle-after-reading-chapter-36-of-sansukh)

  


"Care to try explaining that, lad?" Gimli said. He was a little hoarse. "With words this time?"

"If all Elves knew how fine this is," Legolas said, his eyes sliding away from Gimli's. He touched the thick red moustache again with that long finger, "they would never have scorned the Dwarves in the first place. We have ever admired fine hair. Such hair! Coarse as a horse's mane, yet soft, warm and alive."

"Stop praising me, Legolas, and tell me what that was, why the gulls made you quail in fear," Gimli growled, catching the questing hand. His huge fingers easily encircled the Elf's wrist, despite the difference in their stature. "Please. Please, ghivasha."

Legolas' gaze flicked back to Gimli, and then he drew himself up to a sitting position and took a deep breath. Gimli released his hand, but Legolas reached for it again immediately.

"My people," he began. "I told you they were leaving these shores."

"Aye, over the sea," Gimli said, and shrugged. "Nice for some, if you can get there, I suppose. What do a bunch of birds have to do with that?"

Legolas blinked, and then he laughed under his breath. "You are an endless mine of treasure," he said, shaking his fair head. "Even in a moment such as this, you make my heart lighter."

"In that we are well matched, for it was you who comforted me on the Paths of the Dead," Gimli said gruffly. "Get on with it!"

"Very well, o impatient one!" Legolas squeezed Gimli's hands. "They leave for Aman, where all grief is washed clean. For most it is a call easily answered: we go gladly, for eventually we must, and our lives will be ever-bright there. But some would stay for love of Middle-Earth. Until this moment, I have never felt…"

Gimli blanched. "You felt this call?"

"The Sea-longing, we call it," Legolas mumbled. "When the Elves first awoke, in the days before sun and moon, we were summoned by the Valar to live in Aman. And many answered the summons, and live there still. But many remained, even through wars and tragedies unnumbered, for the beauty of this Middle-Earth is made all the greater for her sorrow. Yet we all know of the call."

"And does this longing cause an Elf to stand still as stone and to weep?" Gimli asked in a halting voice. "Am I to see this again?"

Legolas let out a breath. "No," he said. "No, that was but the first shock. It is no evil spell that I must endure. It is the knowledge that I must go, one day. I must go. Now the gulls will always cry in my dreams, and they will cry my name until I answer."

"Ach," Gimli breathed. "Oh, Legolas."

"Why now?" Legolas said, suddenly angry. "Why now, when I have finally learned my own heart? Why now, when I have barely even begun to discover all you are? Why _now_?"

"Shhh, calm now, kurdulu," Gimli said, and he lifted his hand to stroke Legolas' hair again. "If the longing comes to you, we will face it. I will not let those pesky damned birds fly off with you just yet."

Legolas' mouth quirked, as though the smile escaped him despite his anger. "Would you fight them, meleth nîn?"

Gimli raised his eyebrows. "I'm a Dwarf, I'm of Durin's line, _and_ I'm Erebor's best shot with the throwing axe six years running. Those birds better get a good head start, or they'll be gracing my supper-table before long."

"That," said Legolas, nose wrinkling, "is disgusting."

"Oh hush, you just kissed me in front of the King of Gondor," Gimli retorted. " _And_ you have beard-burn."

Legolas' laugh was more subdued than before, but it still rang out over the river nevertheless.

"Oh thank Mahal, you're here," gasped a new voice, and Thorin turned to see Haban bent over with her hands braced upon her knees, panting for breath. "You have to come, you have to come quick!"

Thorin felt his heartbeat quicken. "What is it? Frodo?"

"No," she waved a hand, still trying to get enough breath for her words. "Faramir, it's Faramir. His father has ordered him to be taken to the place of the tombs!"

"He's dead?" Frerin said, shrinking miserably. "Oh, mahumb."

"No!" Haban stood upright and flipped her great mass of vivid red hair over her shoulder, pinning them with a very exasperated look. "He's not! His father's gone completely around the twist, spouting all sorts of despair and doom. His son lives, but he's going to burn them both to death!"

"Take us there," Thorin said at once. He took Frerin's shoulder in one hand and closed his eyes – and begged Gimlîn-zâram to be kind.

Perhaps it heard him, for this time, the star-pool was gentle with them as it bore them away.

Thorin shook of the clinging radiance and blinked rapidly. He could hear other voices ahead, and the crackling of fire and wood. "I am steward of the house of Anárion. Thus have I walked, and thus now I will sleep," said someone, low and bleak.

"Quick, quick!" Haban said, pulling at Thorin's shoulder. "They make the procession already! Come _on,_ you bloody Longbeard lump, move it!"

Thorin allowed himself to be shoved along by the Firebeard Dwarrowdam, still blinking as his eyes finally accustomed themselves to the gloom. The spume of smoke from Mordor was even thicker here, and it was as dark as night.

"Where in Durin's name have you been!" snapped Fundin. "We need your gift, lad."

"Shut up, shut up, he's talking again," hissed Gróin, and Fundin growled.

"Don't you tell me to shut up, y'old-"

"I think my next project will be a muzzle," Narvi growled, somewhere to the left.

Thorin blinked and blinked as the voice came again: "Why do the fools fly? Better to die sooner than late. For die we must."

"There!" Haban said urgently, and pointed. Thorin peered, and could make out the shocked face of Pippin. "Talk to him, to the Hobbit!"

"And say what?" Thorin glanced around quickly, and his blood froze at the sight that greeted him. Denethor led a train of soldiers up towards a grim outcropping, all covered with tombs and effigies. Upon a bier lay Faramir, his brow beaded with sweat. The young ranger tossed feebly in his fever-dream, and his hair lay lank underneath his head. They entered one of the forbidding tombs, torches flickering in their hands. "Mahal below."

"I told you!" Haban snapped. "Get the Hobbit to _do_ something!"

"Pippin, you cannot let this come to pass!" Thorin said, and stepped closer to the horrified Hobbit. "Stop this monstrosity!"

As the soldiers laid the bier down upon a great stone altar, Pippin made a noise of utter outrage and rushed forward. He threw himself upon Faramir's weakly stirring body, tossing bundles of wood onto the floor. "But – he's not dead!" he shouted. "He's not dead!"

Denethor grabbed the struggling Hobbit and dragged him by the collar towards the great winding stair. "Farewell Peregrin son of Paladin," he said in a voice devoid of all life.

Pippin howled at the top of his lungs, "no! NO!"

But though he strove with all his might, Pippin was no match for the Steward. Denethor seemed to have been made even stronger in the depths of his utter despair: all his resolve and determination now funnelled into hopelessness. "I release you from my service," he said, and threw Pippin down the stairs of the tombs. "Go now and die in what way seems best to you."

"Pippin has no power to command the Steward of Gondor," Thorin said in frustration, and then he straightened as a horn-blast rang through the air. "What is this?"

"There's horsemen on the ridge!" gasped Fundin, running towards the courtyard of the Kings, and Gróin pushed him over to one side so he could look out over the great prow of Mindolluin.

"Those're Rohirrim! They're here at last!"

"They are too late to aid Faramir," Thorin said, turning away from the battlefield and gritting his teeth.

"The Nazgûl turn to meet them!" Fundin shouted, and he raised his arm, fist clenched. "Du bekâr!"

"You're as much help as a fart in the wind," Gróin told him scornfully. Haban nearly screeched in frustration.

"Thorin," Frerin said, tugging his braid, "Thorin, if the Nazgûl are turning away from Minas Tirith to meet the Eorlingas… then the Wizard might be…"

"Gandalf, aye," Thorin breathed, and clapped his brother on the back, before charging back to where Pippin stood, frozen in horror with tears drying upon his face.

"Pippin! Pippin Took!" he shouted, and barely resisted the urge to grab the Hobbit's shoulders. "Go to Gandalf! The White Wizard is who is needed here!"

Pippin shook himself, and immediately sped into a run. He dodged and weaved, faster than any Dwarf could hope to follow. Even Frerin, sprinting ahead, found it impossible to keep up. "Lost him," Gróin growled, and came to a halt by a great stone that had landed right in the thoroughfare.

"More… bloody… running," Fundin groaned, bent over and wheezing.

"All right, I'm beginning to see why he never really worried about being caught," Frerin puffed, holding one hand to his side.

At that moment, a massive Troll stormed through the building they were leaning on, and Narvi swore and ducked reflexively. "Durin's beard!" she said, and then fixed Thorin with a glare. "The Wizard will be where the fighting is thickest. If that Troll is inside, then the first level has fallen. We have to get to the Gate. It's been breached."

"What can be done to retake it?" he asked at once, pushing through the streams of screaming townsfolk who fled the other way.

Narvi grimaced. "Not much. They could use some of these stones the Orcs have been lobbing at them to block the entry, but it's a bit tricky to manage when someone's trying to poke you full of holes."

"I imagine it would be," Frerin said, a little weakly.

"Come on, this way," Narvi said, and she turned towards the great hole the Troll had just opened.

"How does she know the layout of the city already?" Gróin puffed as they followed the renowned craftswoman through the shattered streets of Minas Tirith.

"It's built in the most obvious way possible," Narvi said without even so much as slowing or turning around.

"Never ask how Narvi knows things," Haban whispered to her husband. "Genius, remember?"

"Aye, aye," Gróin mumbled, and he ducked his head and redoubled his pace. "It's uncanny, that's what it is."

If Narvi heard that, she paid no attention.

Finally the huge Gates of Minas Tirith rose high before them, and below raged a killing field of Orcs, Trolls, Men and horses. A massive battering-ram shaped like a snarling wolf had punched through the ancient mechanisms and the fire from its jaws had spread to the roofs of nearby guardhouses.

"Adrân mamahulu sanzigil," said Gróin sharply, causing Thorin to snap out of his horrified stare.

The spinning staff of the Wizard was like a beacon. "There!" shouted Haban, pointing. "There's Pippin!"

Indeed there was a tiny figure scurrying amongst the fighting, curly hair singling him out. "Gandalf!" Pippin screamed. "Gandalf!"

"Peregrin Took! What are you doing here? This is no place for Hobbits!" said Gandalf. "Is it not a law in the City that those who wear the black and silver must stay in the Citadel, unless their lord gives them leave?"

"He has," said Pippin. "He sent me away. But I am frightened. The Lord is out of his mind, I think. He's burning Faramir alive!"

"Burn him alive?" said Gandalf. "What is this tale? Be quick!"

"Denethor has gone to the Tombs,' said Pippin in a rush as Gandalf lifted him and sat him before his saddle, "and he has taken Faramir, and he says we are all to burn, and he will not wait, and they are to make a pyre and burn him on it, and Faramir as well!"

"Pippin speaks truly," Thorin added, and thanked all the Valar when Gandalf's eyes flickered to him in acknowledgement. "Hopelessness has claimed Denethor. He calls all defence futile before the might of Mordor, and he will kill his own son in his despair!"

"Can you save him?" Pippin begged. "Please!"

"Maybe I can," said Gandalf heavily, "but if I do, then others will die, I fear. The Dark Lieutenant is still awaiting me, but his gaze has been drawn elsewhere – for now. Well, I must come, since no other help can reach him. But evil and sorrow will come of this. Even in the heart of our stronghold the Enemy has power to strike us: for his will it is that is at work."

"How? How has Sauron managed to turn such a Man as Denethor to such utter desolation?" Thorin demanded, but Gandalf was already wheeling Shadowfax away from the rout before the Gates

"Nadad…" Frerin began, frowning. Thorin did not look back as he raced after the fleet white horse.

"I do not have _time_ to entertain my shame right now, Frerin," he barked, and he reached back and dragged Frerin after him. "Come on!"

"Oh. Well, uh. Good." Frerin sounded rather nonplussed. "It's not the same anyway, and you know it."

"Unsettling parallels aside, we are _busy_ ," Thorin growled, and he shaded his eyes as a swooping fell-beast crossed the sky above them. "Nazgûl!"

"They're making their way out to the Pelennor!" Narvi yelled. "This way!"

They charged after Narvi, their blood curdling in their veins as the ear-splitting screech of the Nazgûl filled the air. The white coat of Shadowfax could now and then be seen through the press of fighting. Narvi led them with sure confidence through the maze of streets, her dark eyes full of old, old memory.

Finally the place of the Tombs rose before them once more. "Why did they build this on a bloody massive hill, an' why did we have to run all the way to the bottom an' back up again," groaned Gróin, and beside him his brother made a noise like a deflating bellows.

"We live in _Mountains,_ dear," Haban puffed.

"Stay this madness!" Gandalf thundered as he crashed into the tomb. Denethor looked up, covered in a sheen of dripping oil. His eyes were ravaged and hopeless.

"Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable to you, Mithrandir?" he said in a hollow voice.

"You are a Steward, not a King," Gandalf said sternly. "'And only those Kings under the domination of the Dark Power did thus, slaying themselves in pride and despair, murdering their kin to ease their own death."

"My son, my son," Denethor crooned, and he bent down to gaze with such love upon Faramir's face that Thorin shuddered to look at it. Love so twisted and greedy was not true. "He will not wake again. Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side by side?"

"Denethor," Gandalf said, calmer now. "You are a great Man. You are of the line of Anárion, the blood of Westernesse runs nigh-pure in your veins. Faramir lives, and the city yet stands. You could bring them hope. There is much that you can yet do. Do not let despair drive you to madness."

Then suddenly Denethor laughed. He stood up tall and proud again, and reached into his long sleeve and withdrew a round globe that flickered with a familiar, terrible fire. His eyes glittered. "Pride and despair!" he cried. "Did you think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind? Nay, I have seen more than you know, Grey Fool. For your hope is but ignorance. Go then and labour in healing! Go forth and fight! Vanity. For a little space you may triumph on the field, for a day. But against the Power that now arises in the East there is no victory."

"Such counsels will make the Enemy's victory certain indeed," said Gandalf.

"Hope on then!" laughed Denethor. "Do I not know you, Mithrandir? Your hope is to rule in my stead, to stand behind every throne, north, south, or west. Do I not know that you commanded this halfling here to be a spy within my very chamber? And yet in our speech together I have learned the names and purpose of all your companions."

Gandalf gave Pippin a very exasperated look. The Hobbit shrank back.

Denethor snatched a torch from a guard, and held it aloft over the bier. "So! With the left hand you would use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me. But I say to you, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will not be your tool! I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity."

Gandalf let out a long, heavy sigh. "Then you have truly become a fool, Denethor son of Ecthelion."

And suddenly he spurred Shadowfax forward, and knocked Denethor off the bier entirely. The torch fell upon the oil-soaked wood, but Pippin never hesitated. The Hobbit flung himself onto the prone body of Faramir and began to pull him off the pyre.

"This way! Roll!" Thorin shouted, and Pippin did, rolling where the fire was less fierce and breaking their fall. Then he patted out the flames upon their clothes hurriedly, and Gandalf swept them both up safely.

Denethor was not so fortunate. He was letting out short, shocked cries of pain as the fire that he had so yearned for now crept over his flesh. Soon he was screaming, his rich furs entirely ablaze. Howling at the top of his lungs, Denethor seized the globe he had produced with such pomp and lay down upon the bier. All ran from the Tomb, even the guards, as the flames rose and licked the ceiling – and with a final shriek the doors slammed shut behind them.

Silence settled over both living and dead as the screams within the Tomb eventually faded away.

"He could have been a great Man," said Thorin. His bones ached. His eyes felt raw and rough when he blinked them.

"But he is not a _good_ one," Haban retorted. "Greatness without goodness? No _thank_ you."

"A palantir," whispered Frerin. Pippin shuddered and turned away. "That's how he knew so much."

"And that's how Sauron planted despair in his heart," Thorin said, and he wiped his brow. Fear-sweat had made it clammy and tacky to the touch. "Ach, this dark day grows crueller yet."

"Faramir lives, though," Frerin said, and pressed his forehead against Thorin's shoulder. Thorin wrapped an arm around his brother and brought him in close, before looking up at his companions.

Gróin and Fundin were, for once, sad-faced and silent: not a single bickering line passed their lips. Haban was tight-lipped. Narvi's eyes were full of ancient rage and hatred, her hands clenched by her sides.

"There is nothing I would not do," she began in a voice that shook with fury. Then she checked herself and stalked away.

"What-" Fundin said, scratching the back of his head, but Haban held up a swift hand.

"There's not a single one of us," she said quietly, "who can even come close to hating Sauron as much as Narvi does."

In the sudden strange calm, Thorin felt his weariness begin to overtake him. "Long day," he muttered, and wiped a hand down his face.

"I'll say," Frerin said, and he muffled a yawn in his shoulder. "Can we go yet?"

As tempted as Thorin was to say yes, he knew this was not over. "The battle still rages below," he reminded his brother. "The Rohirrim make their charge, but no other force comes to supplement them. This day is not over."

"Damn," Frerin said, and scrubbed at his eyes.

"Take him to the Houses of Healing," Gandalf told the guards. Sorrow and resignation was in his eyes as he spoke, but his face was resolute. "Faramir is now Steward of Gondor. Tell him naught of his father when he wakes: such news is enough to halt his recovery, and besides, I must do so and in person. Our friendship demands that much."

Pippin was breathing hard: short gasps of delayed reaction. Then he gripped his little sword. "Well, he might have dismissed me, but I'm still wearing the colours of the city," he said and his chin lifted in determination. "What now?"

The unearthly shriek of the Nazgûl pierced the air, and all, living and dead, shuddered.

Gandalf turned his head to the East. "The battlefield."

"Oh, wonderful," Frerin sniped, but his muttering was abruptly interrupted by a new arrival. The starlight briefly flared, and then spat out the form of Ori.

"Thorin!" he hollered. "Thorin!"

"Easy, Ori, I am here," he said, and propped up the smaller Dwarf who was blinking up at him. "What is it?"

"It never rains but it pours," Frerin grumbled behind him.

"Out upon the Pelennor," Ori gulped, "Éowyn – Merry – _The Witchking…!"_

" _What_!?" Frerin nearly shrieked, drawing himself straight with a snap. "Let's go, let's go!"

Without waiting for an answer he grabbed Thorin's wrist, and he was abruptly hurtling through constellations of stars. They whirled and streaked past his dazzled eyes, until he was thrown face-first onto the ground. His nose twinged as it hit the winter-hard soil.

"Dáin, your head is as hard as ever," he grunted to himself, and tested the bridge gingerly. Tender, but still unbroken.

"Come on, get up!" Frerin said, high and urgent. "Thorin, get up, get – oh _no…!"_

"What?" Thorin pushed himself up onto his hands, and immediately the cold stench of the Black Breath washed over him.

"To me!" came a roar, and Thorin managed to stagger to his feet and turn to it. Théoden, his armour streaked with blood and his hair askew beneath the horse-crested helm, held his sword high. His bannerman was far behind in a press of Southrons and Orcs. Massive stalking Oliphaunts, their backs bristling with war-caravans, thundered over horses and Men and Orcs alike. Their trumpeting cries made the air shatter. "To me!" Théoden cried again, and he wheeled Snowmane around. "Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!"

A shadow blotted out the sky.

Ori clutched at Thorin. "There's Merry!" he gasped, pointing. "There!"

"Ride!" Théoden shouted, but the horses of the Rohirrim reared and screamed, and their riders lay cowering upon the ground. "To me!"

With a deafening crash, a great black leathery beast landed upon its hideous claws before the King of Rohan. Its wings were nothing more than webs of hide stretched between horned fingers. Its neck was snakelike, and its head resembled that of Smaug in some ways – and more animal, more bestial than Smaug had been. For the dragon, at least, was cunning; his eyes had been alight with intelligence. This stinking creature's eyes only blazed with the desire to destroy.

Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes: the Lord of the Nazgûl. A great black mace he wielded.

Théoden quailed, and then his face hardened in determination. With a savage war-cry on his lips, he urged his horse on. But Snowmane wild with terror danced to one side and then the other. The gargantuan mace whistled through the air: the horse stood up on high, whinnying in terror; the mace connected; white fur turned scarlet.

Then with a great scream Snowmane crashed upon his side. The king fell beneath him.

"NO!" came a howl from somewhere to the left, and it was echoed by Ori and Thorin. Frerin was wide-eyed and silent, his mouth open in shock.

"But. She will weep," he faltered.

That empty hood slowly turned to where Thorin stood with Frerin and Ori, and a satisfied, mocking hiss escaped it. " _Your chance was lossssst,"_ rang the words in Thorin's mind. " _Three of the Dwarf-ringssss and eternal friendship, losssssst for a name and a thief…"_

Thorin's legs felt like they had turned to water, but he drew himself up. "I am Thorin son of Thráin, called Oakenshield," he said, as proudly as he could. "Do you think _you_ have aught I want? All your gifts and all your works are poison _._ Does not the Ring on your own hand tell you so?"

And then both his pride and his fear failed him and he was overcome with anger, his blood running hot. Thorin had seen too much death this day, and now this lich-creature dared speak of Bilbo like a prize to be bartered! "You foul thing! Do you think I would betray one I care for? How little the Black Land knows of Dwarves!"

The Witchking hissed low in surprise. That great and wicked sorcerer seemed taken aback that any could speak such defiance to him. The Black Breath redoubled, and Thorin's legs finally gave out as the terror rolled over him in wave upon wave. He could hear Ori gasping, and Frerin's tight, muffled whimpers.

Then the crowned head rose in satisfaction, and swung back to the fallen horse. " _Feaaaast on his flessssh,"_ the Nazgûl told his steed. The long neck stooped, and the great jaws opened.

"Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!" cried the same voice as before, and the young Rider Dernhelm stood forth, green cloak flapping.

"Quick, Ori, where did you see Merry," Thorin whispered. "While he's distracted - where?"

"Over by that dead Mûmakil," Ori whispered back. "Left, and a bit behind."

Thorin glanced over, and saw the Hobbit inching along the ground upon his belly. His helm was missing and there was no mistaking that curly hair. "Hobbits need to learn to keep their helmets on," he muttered. "No wonder Bilbo was knocked out."

" _Come not between the Naaaazzgûl and his prey,"_ came that sibilant voice again, drilling icy fingers into Thorin's mind. He clapped his hands over his ears with a cry. " _Or he will not ssssssslay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the housesssss of lamentation, beyond all darknesssssss, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy sssssshhhhhrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye."_

The young Rider swallowed hard, eyes white-ringed in terror. Then they drew their sword. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."

The great beast snapped at the Rider, but that sword came down with practised intent. With two great swings, the leathery neck was severed through and the grotesque head rolled and bounced to the cold ground. The body convulsed and collapsed, twitching. Dernhelm stepped back, sword held low, warily watching.

Out of the wreck rose the Black Rider, tall and threatening, towering above them.

Dernhelm's eyes froze with utter dread at the sight of the mace that dangled, cruelly barbed and hooked, from the hand of the Witchking.

"Merry, hurry," Thorin urged as loudly as he dared. "Merry, the courage of Hobbits is slow-kindled but true. Your friend is in danger! Merry! Hurry now!"

With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like venom, the Lord of the Nazgûl swung the mace for Dernhelm's head. Dernhelm ducked, lithe and nimble, but the mace caught the shield upon the third pass. The running-horse device was shattered into many pieces. Dernhelm cried out, clutching desperately at the shield-arm; it was broken. The Rider stumbled to their knees, and the Nazgûl hovered overhead like a malevolent cloud.

The mace was raised to kill.

" _Thou fool_ ," breathed the Witchking, grabbing the young Rider by the throat and dragging them up to the empty hood. Dernhelm shivered and retched and clawed at the mailed hand around their neck. " _No living man may hinder me!"_

But even as the mace raised high to dash out Dernhelm's brains, the Nazgûl let out a piercing shriek of pain, and stumbled to the ground.

Thorin gaped, astounded, as with a yank Merry Brandybuck of the Shire pulled his little sword from the knee of the mighty Witchking of Angmar.

"Mahal save us," Ori said dumbly. "He did it."

It seemed that to put blade to that undead flesh was hazardous indeed. Merry was hurled onto his back as though thrown by a mighty blast, his hand immediately wrapping around his sword-arm with a cry of agony. He lay dazed and unfocused, lolling upon the ground. His blade dissolved into black shards which then blew away as dust in the wind.

Then the young Rider Dernhelm stood above their terrible foe, and pulled their helm from their head. Pale golden hair tumbled down over their shoulders, framing eyes grey as the sea. They were hard and fell, and yet tears glittered upon the beardless cheeks.

"I am no Man," said Éowyn, Éomund's daughter.

And with her last strength, she pushed her sword into that nothingness between mantle and crown. The sword broke sparkling into many shards. The crown rolled away with a clang.

Éowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe. But she hit the ground instead: the mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; and a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up.

"Karzûna", said Frerin in a whisper, and his gaze as he looked upon Éowyn had changed from outright worship to total awe.

"Merry!" Éowyn called, stumbling to her knees, her hair tumbling everywhere. Her broken arm was cradled at her belly, and she appeared sick and dazed. "Merry!"

Then she fell forward again and cried out as her arm was forced to bear her weight. A terrible black stain was creeping up the hand that had dispatched the Nazgûl, and her eyes were glassy.

"Éowyn," came a weak voice.

She looked around wildly, and then inched forward to where the prone corpse of the horse Snowmane lay. Underneath was Théoden, blood seeping in a slow trickle from his mouth. His body lay motionless, but his face was awake and aware. "Éowyn," he managed again.

"Oh, adùruth!" Frerin sobbed. "No, I cannot. Please, please, she has lost so much already!"

Théoden smiled as his niece finally reached him. He looked upon her with such love and tender pride that it felt intrusive to be there. Thorin averted his eyes.

"I know your face," Théoden said, and Éowyn managed a smile in return, wobbly and tearful. "Éowyn."

Then he took a shallow breath and said ruefully, "my eyes darken."

"No," she said immediately. "No, I'm going to save you."

He smiled again, and touched her face with a gentle hand. "You… already did."

Then he let his hand fall, as though it weighed more than the horse upon his body. "Éowyn. My body is broken. You have to let me go."

"No," she gasped.

Frerin wept.

"I go to my fathers, in whose mighty company; I shall not now feel ashamed," Théoden said, and a light touched his face as he looked upon her.

His breath caught. "Éowyn," he said.

Then he lay still.

Éowyn stared for a moment, before her shoulders began to shake. She pressed her face against Théoden's unmoving chest. Then finally between her sobs she was overcome and lay swooning. Her face was ravaged and drawn with more than grief: the black breath was working upon her still, poisoning her beyond her sorrow.

"It's not fair!" Frerin cried.

"So many have died today," Thorin said, and dimly he heard Ori begin to hum the old Mourning-tune. "So much death."

Frerin fumbled at his belt. With one impulsive movement he drew the little poniard that Thorin had made him, all those years ago. He brought it to his face and cut through one of his small cheek-braids, and then looked up defiantly.

"You're going to look a bit daft until you revert to the way you were," said Ori, stunned and subdued.

"I don't care." Frerin gripped the braid in his fist, and then pressed it to his forehead. His cheek now tufted oddly and unevenly. Thorin smoothed it down with a gentle hand, just as their mother would have done.

Then he tugged Frerin into a tight embrace, and held him. His brother was stiff and tense at first, and then he began to crumple piece by piece until he was sobbing into Thorin's chest.

"Come on," he said eventually. "Let's go home."

* * *

It was very late.

Hrera had taken one look at Frerin and enfolded him in the warm whirlwind of her affection. Thorin watched his brother as he was led away, his braid still clutched in his small fist.

His eyelids grew heavy and his sight was blurred, and he jerked upright as he realised how close he was to falling asleep where he stood.

"You need to get yourself into bed," said a voice. It was rather pert – but it also sounded as though the owner were trying to conceal a certain amount of worry.

"I know, I know," Thorin grunted, and looked down to see Bilbo pursing his lips at him. "Where did you go?"

"Wellllll," Bilbo rubbed the back of his curly head. "Seeing Bombur, ah. I woke up?"

"Oh, of course." Thorin yawned, and began to stumble his way through the Halls back to his own chambers. He had to prop himself along with one hand against the wall: his legs were rubbery and aching. Bilbo frowned, before skipping along to catch up.

"You ridiculous Dwarf," he tutted, and the worry in his voice was even clearer. "You're dead on your feet!"

"Clearly." Thorin said, and gave his Hobbit a rather flat look.

"I didn't mean _that,_ " Bilbo said, and he let out a gusty sigh of exasperation. "Well, there's nothing for it, I'm going to have to help you."

"Help me?" Thorin pushed open his chamber door, and nearly groaned aloud at the sight of his bed. It seemed years ago that Bilbo had appeared upon his dresser. "Bilbo…"

"You do need my help, look at the state of you," Bilbo said, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows. "This single-mindedness of yours is dreadfully bad for you."

"And you, Master Baggins, are so free of any unhealthy obsessions," Thorin muttered. Then he let out a growl and flopped down onto his bed and buried his face in his pillow. "I apologise for my sharpness, Bilbo. I am not in any state to bandy clever words today. I have watched too many die. I have seen too much grief."

Bilbo was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, he sounded closer. "Do you want to tell me?"

  


  
  


In Thorin's room, by [ fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/116125205865/my-cousin-died-today-he-said-aghh-so-much)

  


Thorin rolled over to see Bilbo perched upon the foot of his pallet. He seemed about as comfortable as a Dwarf in an Elven talan, his knees pressed together primly and his hands clasped in his lap. But his face was, for once, soft and sympathetic.

"My cousin died today," he said, and felt at his nose again. Still a little sore. "He gave his life for my home, and now my sister grieves once more."

"Your cousin? Which one?"

"Dáin," Thorin sighed.

"Oh, the one who…" Bilbo's eyes widened, and Thorin nodded tiredly.

"Aye, him. He died a hero's death. As did Bombur. As did Théoden. Denethor… ah, what despair can do! What despair can wreak!"

"Shhhhh," Bilbo soothed, and he scooted closer. He now wore his worry openly. "Thorin, don't…"

"Can you sing, Master Baggins?" he managed through numb lips. His eyes stung. "Would you?"

Bilbo hesitated, and then he shifted closer yet. "I'm not _you_ but I'm not bad, as my own people reckon it," he said. "What would you like me to sing?"

"One of your songs, Burglar, if you would be so kind," Thorin mumbled, and he closed his heavy eyelids and let Bilbo's light voice wash him into sleep, singing softly:

" _The Road goes ever on and on_  
_Out from the door where it began._  
_Now far ahead the Road has gone,_  
_Let others follow it who can!_  
_Let them a journey new begin,_  
_But I at last with weary feet_  
_Will turn towards the lighted inn,_  
_My evening-rest and sleep to meet."_

...

_TBC_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Kurdulu - my heart  
> nadad - brother  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Inùdoy - son  
> ukrâd, nahùba Bombur - The bravest heart, heroic Bombur  
> Bifuruh - my Bifur  
> Barufûn belkul - mighty kinsman  
> Adrân mamahulu sanzigil – Time is made of Mithril  
> Mahumb – droppings  
> Karzûna – Glory-Lady  
> Adùruth – Mourning  
> Nekhushel – Sorrow of all sorrows  
> Ghivasha – treasure  
> Kurdu – Heart  
> Du bekâr – To Arms
> 
> **Sindarin**  
>  Meleth nîn – my love
> 
> * * *
> 
> Some lines taken from the films, and from _The Return of the King,_ chapters "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields", "The Pyre of Denethor", "The Last Debate", and "The Tower of Cirith Ungol." Also, _The Two Towers,_ chapter "The Choices of Master Samwise."
> 
> Dwimmerlaik – a Rohirric word, referring to a spectre or ghoul.
> 
> Anárion – The second son of Elendil. Isildur's younger brother. The Stewards of Gondor were not truly of his line, for it died out with the last King of Gondor, Eärnur. The Stewards however ruled in his name, rather than Isildur's, for before it was Minas Tirith ("Tower of Guard") it had been named Minas Anor ("Tower of the Sun") and had been founded by Anárion.
> 
> The city Isildur built was called Minas Ithil ("Tower of the Moon"), but had long been captured by Mordor. It was referred to ever after as Minas Morgul ("Tower of Sorcery"). It is located at the base of the winding stair to Cirith Ungol.
> 
> Westernesse – the common-tongue name for Númenor. The island granted to the race of Men by the Valar, which sank beneath the sea in the Second Age. Aragorn is descended from Numenorean nobility.
> 
> Mindolluin – Minas Tirith is built to the east of this mountain. "Towering Blue Head," in Sindarin.
> 
> The song is, of course, Tolkien's 'The Road Goes Ever On'.
> 
>  **ART AND ARTINESS STUFF CONT**  
>  notesofaluin: [wrote up some beautiful cirth and tengwar!](http://notesofaluin.tumblr.com/post/114734685660/i-tried-mkay)  
> courtugger: ARTS! [Dis,](http://courtugger.tumblr.com/post/116009359892/ah-yes-finally-some-art-outta-me-like-damn-okay) [Oin Gloin and Haban](http://courtugger.tumblr.com/post/115182894942/why-the-fuck-did-this-turnout-sideways-i-dunno), and [Haban!](http://courtugger.tumblr.com/post/114463191202/i-finally-got-around-to-drawing-haban-from-sansukh)  
> Val-kiri: [Legolas being a pretty-boy showoff](http://val-kiri.tumblr.com/post/115991436049/legolas-being-a-pretty-boy-showoff-dets-36th) :)  
> thebagginshieldacorn: [ made a little pic for my Thrain headcanon - the presentation of Thrain!](http://thebagginshieldacorn.tumblr.com/post/114722833193/erebor-ta-2644-the-presentation-of-simba-torbor%22)  
> yetyoucomfortme: [Sparkly Overbearing Ghost Boyfriend Thorin!](http://yetyoucomfortme.tumblr.com/post/114705275831/follow-for-more-sparkly-overbearing-ghost) [Bilbo's artistic license hahaha](http://yetyoucomfortme.tumblr.com/post/113644098491/x-bilbo-grew-older-but-barely-showed-it-at-all)  
> Silentunicornspeaks: [Dis and Dain](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/114375637218/because-you-broke-my-heart-with-this-brotp-ahhh-oh)  
> Nukkelapsi: [The Iron Hills Soldier's Song (in Finnish!)](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116084664498/nukkelapsi-a-finnish-fandub-for)  
> theladydis: gifset of [I sit beside the fire and think](http://theladydis.tumblr.com/post/113516001862/i-sit-beside-the-fire-and-think-of-words-i-never)  
> mamma-scandinavia: [Dain](http://mamma-scandinavia-personal.tumblr.com/post/113475949561/determamfidd-the-new-chapter-of-sansukh-hit-me)  
> goldberry-in-the-rushes: [Dis and Dain](http://goldberry-in-the-rushes.tumblr.com/post/113482525390/dis-and-dain-art-by-goldberry-in-the-rushes-i). Also - [Nadad Ame](http://goldberry-in-the-rushes.tumblr.com/post/113454495690/nadad-ame-brother-mine-song-and-khuzdul-by)  
> Christmashippo: [Narvi and Celebrimbor!](http://christmashippo.tumblr.com/post/114663262143/i-spent-almost-five-hours-on-this-what-is-wrong)  
> sutoribenda: [Legolas!](http://sutoribenda.tumblr.com/post/114660761930/bored-in-history-class-again-drew-legolas-for)  
> punsbulletsandpointythings: [Laindawar Thanduilion](http://punsbulletsandpointythings.tumblr.com/post/114622975516/so-determamfidd-i-know-that-laindawar-has)  
> kilisbovv: [Laerophen Thranduilion](http://kilisbovv.tumblr.com/post/114517874361/little-sketchy-doodle-y-thing-of-laerophen-for)  
>    
>  **Thank you so so SO much for your reviews and kudos! I read every single one, though I can't respond to them all. They make my heart sing with gratitude. THANK YOU.**
> 
> I can always be found at [my tumblr!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com)


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP THE PRESSES. THE [SANSUKH PODFIC - CHAPTER ONE HAS ARRIVED AND IT IS EFFING GLORIOUS](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com/post/118470137435/sansukh-podfic-chapter-one-update) go listen NOW NOW NOW
> 
> Please read the FAQ at [sansukh podfic](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com/) if you would like to be involved!
> 
> Musicians, we're not leaving you out! contact [courtugger](http://courtugger.tumblr.com/) to be a part of the sansukh orc-estra! (OMG)
> 
>  **Art and Artiness**  
>  fishfingersandscarves: [Varda,](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/118843710940/another-valar-for-dets-this-ones-varda-u-know) [Nienna,](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/118841749890/nienna-my-fav-valar-for-dets-bc-sansukh-will) [Bilbo and Thorin Ch36](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/116125205865/my-cousin-died-today-he-said-aghh-so-much)  
> morranperedhel: [Irmo](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118839379418/morranperedhel-here-is-lorien-aka-irmo-the), [Nienna](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118823430203/morranperedhel-this-is-lady-nienna-the-lady-of), [Aule](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118820060628/morranperedhel-this-is-valar-number-two-for), [Yavanna](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118809112028/morranperedhel-this-is-yavanna-the-valar-of-the).  
> flukeoffate: [Gimizh in a cookie-monster shirt!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118753453713/flukeoffateart-cookie-monster-by-flukeoffate)  
> fullmetalnation: [Bilbo leaving Erebor](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118735466213/fullmetalnation-inspired-by-peter-hollenss), [The Gull's Call](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118250156488/fullmetalnation-why-do-the-white-gulls-call), [On the River - Cover page](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117119350808/fullmetalnation-fanart-for),  
> chess-ka: [Bomris, Kifur and Bifur](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118643133213/chess-ka-for-determamfidd-because-the)  
> kazi: [Thorin wakes in the Halls](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118595032528/kazimakuwabara-blackness-so-in-celebration), [The Kiss](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117379490908/kazimakuwabara-he-got-no-further-for-legolas), [Rescuing Frodo](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117378811088/kazimakuwabara-chapter-36-rescuing-frodo-from), [Only Sleeping](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116988792513/kazimakuwabara-only-sleeping-i-wish-im-torn),  
> mirandatam: [Varda](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118822788748/varda-elbereth-gilthoniel-so-i-got-inspired-when-i)  
> poplitealqueen: [Bomfris sees her father](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118557266163/poplitealqueen-bomfris-daughter-of-alris-if)  
> lacefedora: [Bilbo Expressions](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/118260079953/having-a-bad-week-oh-no-have-some-cartoony-bilbo), [Unsaid](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117926463963/lacefedora-bagginshield-doodle-to-go-with-my), [Dis fighting](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117511701388/lacefedora-dis-training-ereborians-in-the), [Dis - headshot](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116715422038/lacefedora-dis-sister-of-thorin-mother-to), [after the Gull's cry](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/116357385186/gigolas-doodle-after-reading-chapter-36-of-sansukh)  
> foxinsocksinabox: [Dis.](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117595872643/foxinsocksinabox-got-very-bored-in-the-last)  
> courtugger: [Gigolas kiss](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/117379263758/courtugger-first-gigolas-sketch-this-is)  
> Mamma-scandinavia: [Gigolas kiss](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116610822398/mamma-scandinavia-personal-im-on-a-photoshop)  
> ursubs: [Sketches](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116545031228/ursubs-some-sansukh-chapter-36-scribbles-first), [Crowning the Stonehelm](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/116197329623/okay-so-completely-blown-away-by-the-new-chapter),  
> ceeeeleeeebriiiiaaaaan: [Three Durin Sibs and Three Hunters](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116507779988/ceeeeeeleeeeeebriiiiiiaaaaaan-the-three-durin)  
> Christmashippo: [Narvi's mourning marks](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116507194513/christmashippo-yay-more-narvi-this-is-really)  
> piyo-13: [Dis and the Raven Crown](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com/post/116186586341/your-majesty-you-are-needed-at-the)  
> val-kiri: [Legolas the showoff](http://val-kiri.tumblr.com/post/115991436049/legolas-being-a-pretty-boy-showoff-dets-36th)  
>  **[The Sansukh Masterpost is as always right here!!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost)**

...

"Wake up, inúdoy," came a soft voice into Thorin's dreams, and he stirred and groaned.

"Bilbo?" he mumbled, rolling over.

His mother's face swam into view, her eyebrows raised. "Regrettably not," she said, and gave him a tired but amused smile. "Only me. I am sorry, my darling – I would not wake you, but you will be needed in a short while. I thought it best to give you a little time to eat and bathe."

"Amad." Thorin yawned, muffling it against his forearm, before sitting up and scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "What is it now?"

"Óin has left his post at long last," she said, and handed him a cup of something hot. Fragrant steam rose from it. He drank gratefully. "The ships approach the port of Harlond. Gimli is about to enter battle."

Thorin blinked for a moment, the words taking some time to register. Then he came awake all at once. "I must be there," he said immediately, throwing off his covers and discovering that he was still fully dressed but for his boots. He gulped down some more of his hot tea as he shoved one of them on without buckling it, and began to scour the floor for the other.

"You must _wash."_ Frís sighed. "Thorin, go and bathe first. There is a little time yet."

He looked up from his search. "Amad, are you all right? Are you well?"

"Aye." She waved a hand, before pressing it against her brow. "Simply tired, my love. And sad. There has been much lost these past days."

"There has." Thorin's own weariness washed over him again, and he hid it with a sip of his drink. Then he hesitated, before asking tentatively, "how is Frerin?"

"A thorough mess, but he will come through it," said Frís, smiling wryly. "I just came from him. Your father stays with him now."

"Good." Thorin's shoulders relaxed, ever so slightly. Thráin was the perfect person for Frerin to be near at this time. He would allow Frerin his grief and sadness without judgement, give him an undemanding space and silence if he needed it, and furthermore he knew more than most of dealing with grief and longing. "Father will help him."

"He looks like a shorn puppy with that bristle on his face," Frís said, and she shook her head. "I can't imagine what came over him. For Théoden?"

"For Éowyn as well," Thorin said. "For Dáin, and for Bombur, and for Brand and for Merry – for all those that we saw fall, and those who lost them."

Frís said nothing for a beat, and then she stepped forward and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss his forehead. Then she wrinkled her nose. "Bath."

Thorin surreptitiously sniffed at his shoulder. Ah.

As he kicked off his boot and began to strip off his tunic, his mother sat down at his dresser and covered a yawn with her hand. "Fíli reported that Sam has rescued Frodo from the Tower of Cirith Ungol," she said. "He is shaky and bruised, but otherwise unharmed."

Bilbo would be pleased. "Good."

Frís winced, as though steeling herself to say her next piece of news. "Apparently the Stonehelm is moving quickly in his first day of Kingship. He threw open the Gates and led another charge into the valley down to Dale. There amidst the fighting they opened a column to safety."

Thorin rubbed his eyes again. Great Mahal, how long had he slept? Not that long, surely!

Frís continued. "Now all of Dale takes refuge within the Mountain, and the Gates are shut behind them. Elves, Men and Dwarves, all crowded together."

Thorin frowned, scratching at his chest. "They do not have the provisions for yet more people. The stores were already running low. That is why Bofur dug the tunnel."

"For now it is more important that they are all alive," Frís said wearily. "The healers are working in a frenzy, and Dori is barking at all and sundry as he organises housing and clothing and bedding for the Bizarûnh. Bard of Dale and Laerophen of the Elves support the Stonehelm: it is a beginning."

Thorin paused, his lips tightening. _A Bard of Dale, an Elf-lord of Mirkwood, and a Thorin of Erebor, all working as one. Such a strange world we live in. Better late than never._

"What else?" he said, rather than speak his thoughts. "How does Faramir fare?"

Frís' eyes dropped. "Not well. He shakes and sweats, but he lives for now. The lord of Dol Amroth, a man called Prince Imrahil, has taken over command of the city and gives all orders for their defence. In the name of the Steward of Gondor."

Thorin knew better than to swear in front of his mother. "And what manner of man is this Prince Imrahil?"

She shrugged a little helplessly. "All I have been told is that he is descended of mixed heritage, both Man and Elf. They call him the Swan Lord, for there is a great swan like a sailing ship upon his banner. Dol Amroth sits upon the bay of Belfalas, after all. Oh, and his sister, Finduilas, was the mother of Boromir and Faramir."

That made his head whip to her. "He is their uncle?"

She smiled. "That is usually the way it works, yes."

"He does not wish to retain command of the city, does he?" That would prove ugly, particularly with Aragorn nearly upon the doorstep of Minas Tirith. One Steward had already tried to deny the return of the King, and it had nearly caused the city's ruin.

"I do not think so," said Frís. "He takes all of Gandalf's advice, certainly, and makes all decisions in Faramir's name and not his own. Not that he has much luxury for scheming in the midst of war. The tide is turning, particularly after the death of the Nazgûl, but they are still vastly outnumbered and those Oliphaunts are devastating."

Then she stood again and tutted. "Ridiculous, the way I forget that you are so grown. Ah! You need to eat, look at you. And no, don't make that face at me, my stormcloud. You need to eat. Bathe, then go to the dining-chamber. _Then_ you can go to Gimli."

Thorin decided not to answer that.

She gave him another tired, tense little smile, and patted the back of his hand. Then her eyes glinted with amusement. "Bilbo?"

He chose not to answer _that,_ either (though he had a suspicion that his ears were turning red).

A bath did make him feel better, and so did fresh clothes. He felt somewhat more awake and alert as he sat down at their family's customary table in one of the larger communal dining chambers. These were scattered through the Halls: some large, some small, some boisterous and raucous, some quiet and soothing and intimate.

To his surprise, Dáin was also there, and there was a huge hoary pig seated by him. Its head was laid trustingly in his lap, and Dáin was scratching its ears absently as he took in the great chamber.

"Thorin!" he said, grinning as he approached. "How's your nose feeling?"

"Fine, thank you for asking," he retorted. "I think a stinging fly might have bitten it yesterday, but it's hardly noticeable."

Dáin laughed. "Ah, I've missed you." Then he waved a hand at the breathtakingly beautiful room, glittering and stately and strange. "This is really something else, isn't it?"

"You soon get used to it." Thorin sat and lifted the cover upon the great bowl in the centre of the table. Hrera's porridge with honey and dried fruit: excellent. "Where did you get the pig?"

Dáin blithely ignored that. "Ori told me that you've been watching everything. He used the word 'obsessive' four times."

Thorin took a breath. "Yes, I have."

Dain leaned forward, and his genial cousin suddenly morphed into the careworn King Under the Mountain. "How are they," he asked, low and urgent. "How are they? Are they all right? Did you see them?"

"I just woke," Thorin said, and he gripped Dáin's wrist. "I have yet to visit the waters. But my mother tells me that your son has brought all of Dale into the Mountain. They're safe. They're all safe."

Dáin sat back with an explosive exhale. "Thank Mahal," he said softly. "There's a good lad."

The pig grunted, annoyed at being jostled. Dáin obediently went back to scratching its ears.

"When you feel ready, I will show you Gimlîn-zâram myself," Thorin promised. "You can see them with your own eyes."

Dáin was quiet and still for a moment, and then he said, "that's got to be hard. Real hard. Seeing and never speaking. Seeing and never touching. Seeing, and never being seen."

To see Dáin and speak with him, as in long-gone days, felt so strange to Thorin. He studied his cousin as he ate, noting that his tattoos still marched over his forehead and fingers, and the boar-tusks once again stood proudly in his beard. It was difficult to pinpoint the difference in him from the Dwarf who had laughed in Thranduil's face and called him names, all those years ago. There was a stillness and a wisdom in Dáin's eyes, however, that spoke of his true age, rather than any outward physical sign.

Thorin firmly pushed aside the memory of this Dwarf lying in the mud, his hair white and stained with his life's blood.

"I imagine it'd be like being trapped in a glass box," Dáin said then, rather softly. "How lonely."

"It is not always easy, no." Thorin looked down at his porridge, and then back at Dáin. "But I can help you there. My Gift."

Dáin's eyes grew huge as Thorin told him of Mahal's strange blessing. "How many times did you use this on me, you bloody blunt chisel?" he exclaimed. The pig snorted loudly in protest. "I should bop you on the nose again for that!"

"Dáin, peace!" Thorin held up his hands. "Dáin! I am barely a whisper in the wind, I can hardly coerce others to do as I will! Besides, I have yet to meet the Dwarf, Man, Elf, Wizard or even Messenger of Mordor who could force you to do a damned thing you did not wish to do."

Dáin pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing. Then he settled back down. The pig snuffled, offended, and flopped onto the floor. "Fair point. So you're off to do your magic voice again now?"

Thorin could feel an indignant laugh bubbling up. _Magic voice!_ "Aye. I go to Gimli."

"Gimli!" Dáin's face broke into a smile. "And what has that tearaway gotten himself into? A one-Dwarf army, that one. Last news I had was from Rohan, and that was scant enough."

"He still rides with the remnants of the Fellowship that set out from the meeting at Rivendell," Thorin said, and shovelled some more porridge into his mouth. "They have passed through the haunted tunnels beneath the Dwimorberg. Now they bring an undead army upon Minas Tirith to break their siege."

"You're making me jealous now," Dáin said, impressed. "Wish I had one o' them. Damn. _Damn!"_

"That is not all," Thorin said, and he braced himself for the inevitable explosion. "He is in love."

"Wait, he's in what?"

"Love. With the Elf. Legolas Thranduilion."

Dáin's mouth dropped open, and he stared at Thorin for a long moment.

Then he threw his head back and _roared_ with laughter.

Taken-aback, Thorin put down his spoon. "Um. Dáin?" That was not the usual reaction, not at all. He had been expecting something more along the lines of Óin's feelings on the matter.

The pig grunted loudly at the explosion of sound, and gave Thorin the most intelligent and _annoyed_ look he had ever received from an animal. It was as if it understood that all the noise coming from Dáin was Thorin's fault.

  


  


  


  


Dain, Thorin and a very unsettling pig, by [ Ursubs](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/119047516508/dain-and-the-ineffable-pig-from-determamfidds)

  


"Ahaaaa, oh my sides," Dáin managed weakly as he wiped his eyes. "Oh my sweet Maker, that is priceless. Thorin, you old bugger, that's the best one I've heard in decades."

"It isn't a joke, Dáin," Thorin said, now thoroughly confused and growing irritated. Also, the look the pig was giving him was very disconcerting. "I assure you, it is the truth."

"Oh, I don't disbelieve you, laddie." Dáin assured him, still grinning hugely. "It's only. Well. Can you imagine Thranduil and Glóin?"

Thorin paused.

And then he began to chuckle. "Aye, well. Yes."

"That thin smear o' sour milk versus the attack-shrub?" Dáin rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I want ringside seats to that."

"I suspect Nori will be making a book."

"Naturally." Dáin laughed again, a short huff of breath, and fondly gave the pig one last pat. Then he stood and pulled down his tunic with a short and decisive jerk. "Right, well, no time like the present, eh? Show me this star-puddle."

 _Puddle!_ Thorin coughed around a mouthful of porridge. "Now?"

"Why not? You're going there, I might as well see what all the fuss is about."

"I do not go to Erebor yet," Thorin said, frowning. "Would your father, or perhaps my grandfather…"

Dáin stilled, and those wise old eyes (now set in far too young a face) shuttered slightly. "Give me a moment before I see 'em," he said, soft and yet steady. "Give me other things to occupy my mind before I have to see what I left behind me, eh?"

Thorin looked down at his porridge-bowl. "Aye, well. Then follow me."

"Gladly." Dáin looked down at his clothes and then wrinkled his nose. "Not really dressed for swimming…"

Thorin smiled at the empty bowl. Then he pushed back his chair, and jerked his head towards the door. "This way."

As they moved through the Halls, Thorin could feel eyes following them. "Why is every bugger looking at me," Dáin muttered. "They look at you like you're the seventh coming, and they look at me like I crap diamonds. What's all that about?"

"My watch has become… well known," Thorin said, as delicately as he could. Then he elbowed his cousin conspiratorially. "And you, O hero-King of Erebor, are a legend now. How does it feel?"

"Chilly," Dáin said after a moment's deliberation. "This place needs heating. I've had enough o' the cold."

"Spoken like a true Easterner."

"Shut up, Oakenshield," Dáin said easily, and bumped his shoulder with his own. "Which way now? Or should I be trusting you to show me the way?"

"I see your wit is as dull as ever," Thorin said, and grinned at him. "This way."

It seemed that Dáin's new foot was something quite extraordinary. He did not have to adjust his gait for it at all, and easily kept pace with Thorin. The slight _click_ of mithril against stone was unobtrusive. Dáin caught Thorin glancing down at it, and the corner of his mouth quirked. "Aye, a fine thing, isn't it? I'll wager it never needs cleaning either. Doesn't hurt at all to wear: no ache at all, nor chafing or rubbing. I barely need the padding over my stump. Who knows, perhaps I can wear it as long as I like without any strain! Wish I'd had one of these for the last forty years: my old ironfoot was starting to show the rust. Well," he laughed to himself, and picked up a lock of his restored and vibrant hair to peer at it. "I suppose I was too."

"Did you ask for your leg to be restored?"

"Nah. Asked for myself to remain as I see fit. Our Maker is wise." Dáin looked down at his new shining foot fondly. "I've been Dáin Ironfoot far longer than I've been Dáin the Dwarf wi' two legs. Can't see myself otherwise: it's part of who I am. But Mahal knew what I wanted, and took away the bad while leaving me with myself. Can't ask for more than that."

At the pearl-studded door of the Chamber of Sansûkhul, Thorin paused. "It is good to speak to you again, Dáin," he said, serious for a moment.

Dáin's face softened. "And you."

Then he nudged Thorin. "An' get a move on, this pond'll have dried up by the time we get there."

The benches around the glassy, shining waters of Gimlîn-zaram were half empty. Neither Fíli nor Kíli sat in their usual places, but Nori was seated some way off. His brow was furrowed. Weariness had painted black rings beneath Haban's eyes. Narvi was by her side, and she glared at the waters as though trying to solve a complex puzzle. Thrór and Hrera sat hand-in-hand at another bench, and Lóni was propped up against Frár as he slumped in his seat. Upon the furthest shore of the great pool, Fundin and Dwerís sat. All their eyes stared unblinking at the waters, their chests rising and falling imperceptibly.

"Eerie," Dáin pronounced. "That is definitely eerie."

"Come," Thorin said, and took his seat. It now felt like mounting a well-known pony, so familiar was it. "Sit here, as comfortably as you can, and look at the surface of the pool."

"All right." Dáin sat, and immediately kicked off his boot and stretched out his toes, wriggling them as he scratched a little at his belly. "What?" he said, catching Thorin's look of amusement. "You said to get comfy."

"Look at the water," Thorin repeated. Dáin stretched a bit, before settling and doing as he was bid. His light blue eyes narrowed.

"Is it…"

"Do not fight it," Thorin murmured. "Go with it. Let it take you."

The stars began their hypnotic swirling under the water, growing brighter and brighter until their fire blazed with hunger. Thorin took a breath and let them consume him.

The capricious pool was gentle this time as it bore them to Middle-Earth, but even so Dáin was panting when they emerged in the sunlight. "What in the name o' Durin's sweaty jockstrap was that?!" he gasped, doubled over and clutching his knees. "Does everything in this bloody place intend to do away with my sight?"

"Blink a bit, it will pass," Thorin told him, and clapped him on the back. "You're all right."

"This is payback for your nose, ain't it," Dáin grumbled, straightening and rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand. "Ow."

Then the sounds of battle filtered through to both of them. As one they stood straighter and more alert. Dáin's face snapped from irritable to steely determination in a split second. "Where are we?" he said beneath his breath.

"Minas Tirith," Thorin replied, shading his smarting eyes with one hand. "And there is the river."

Dáin frowned slightly. "What's the river got to do with anything?"

"Gimli is on a ship, sailing from the bay of Belfalas." Thorin peered through his stinging, blurry eyes through the fog of battle and smoke. "My mother is collating all information as we watch. She told me that the ships have nearly arrived. I hope we have not missed them."

"On a ship," said Dáin flatly. "Gimli."

"Aye." Thorin glanced back at him, his mouth twitching. "He rides a horse as well."

Dáin's eyebrows shot up. "Someone's going to have to scrape Glóin off the roof," he said eventually.

The pair wove their way towards the river through the press of fighting. The Rohirrim were flagging – the battle had dragged on in Thorin's absence, and their horses were flecked with foam and shaking with weariness. The Mûmakil towered and trumpeted, leaving ruin in their wake. Men screamed as arrows and huge chunks of masonry flew from the walls of the White City.

Dáin's mouth was a tight, thin line. "Wish I had Barazanthual with me," he muttered. "The numbers are beyond counting, they're going to be overrun. They need reinforcements."

"I cannot tell you how often I have wished for Orcrist," Thorin replied, still peering through the muddling tangle of Men and beasts. And then, as though in answer, black sails slowly and gracefully drifted into view. "There!" he breathed.

"That's good timing," Dáin remarked, and folded his arms to watch.

An Orc pushed their way forward, their face set in a sneer. "Late as usual, pirate scum!" they barked. "There's knifework here needs doing. Come on you sea rats, get off your ships!"

At that moment, three figures clad in grey-green cloaks leapt down from the side of the ships. Legolas alighted upon his toes, graceful as ever – but Gimli thudded to the earth as though he never intended to leave it again. His hobnailed boots fairly _boomed_ as they made contact, and he gripped his axe in his hands. His eyes were alight with challenge and the fire of battle as he looked upon the flood of foes that lay between them and Minas Tirith.

Aragorn unsheathed Andúril, and began to stride forward without a word. The Orc stared in speechless confusion as the Man approached.

"There's plenty for the both of us," Gimli murmured, giving the elf an arch look. Then he began to charge after Aragorn, as unstoppable as an avalanche. "May the best Dwarf win!"

Legolas only laughed, and his bow began to sing its deadly song. All around them, the air crackled and hissed with green fire – and then, like a breaking wave, the King of the Dead led the host of ghouls through the Three Hunters and over the Orcs. The Grey Company followed, streaming behind the Elf, Man and Dwarf who pushed forward into the fray, their swords ringing and flashing.

Upon the ships, the black banner flapped and glittered with the shine of mithril, and the White Tree embroidered there caught the dim sunlight and blazed like a star.

Dáin nodded approvingly. "Didn't waste words. I like him. Who is he?"

"That is Aragorn, son of Arathorn." Thorin stepped back to allow a green-tinted skeleton to rattle past. It nodded politely and then cut off an Orc's head. Thorin blinked, before deciding to disregard that. "He is a Ranger of the North, and the rightful heir of Gondor and Arnor, descended in direct line from Isildur, Elendil's son."

"What, you're joking!" Dáin spun back to stare at Aragorn for a moment, before he shrugged. "Well, he'll want a better beard than the scruff he's sportin'. Dwarves'll never respect a lavvy-brush like that."

"You sound like my grandmother."

"Your grandmother's terrifying. I'm thrilled to hear it." Dáin grinned back at him. Then he nodded to where Gimli fought. "He's actually gotten better since he left: I didn't think it possible. That's got to be the best axe-work I have ever seen in my li- uh, my _existence_. And I don't need to ask who the Elf is. Recognise that hair anywhere. What about the rest?"

"They are called the Grey Company, who followed Aragorn on the Paths of the Dead," Thorin said, ducking and weaving to get closer to where Gimli fought. "The sons of Elrond Peredhil, and the Dúnedain of Arnor."

"And you can be heard by all of them?"

"No, only now and then, and only imperfectly," Thorin sighed. Then he smiled as Gimli came into full view, his axe blurring the air around him and his face alive with adrenalin. "But Gimli hears me always, and with perfect clarity."

"Idmi, Melhekhel," Gimli said as though in proof, his breath coming hard as he cut another Orc down. "Don't blame you for skipping out for a while there. Boats aren't ever going to be my favourite form o' transport, I'm thinking."

Thorin heard Dáin's sharp intake of breath, but his attention was firmly fixed upon his star as he stepped forward. "How does Legolas fare?"

Gimli paused for a moment to wipe sweat from his eyes, and then hefted up his axe again to casually chop an Orc's arm off before decapitating it with a one-handed backswing. "To tell truth, I don't know," he said, and there was worry in the deep voice. "I've never seen nor heard anything like it. He tells me he will have no more spells like that first one, though. It will be more like a strange compulsion. And he will always hear those dratted flying rats crying in his ears when he feels it."

"What's wrong with the Elf?" Dáin muttered, close to Thorin's ear. Gimli's brow furrowed.

"That is a new voice, and yet I know them."

Thorin froze for a moment, his eyes travelling to Dáin's solid, reassuring presence at his side.

Dáin sighed heavily. "Might as well tell him. He'd find out eventually."

"You are sure?" Thorin murmured, and Dáin shrugged one shoulder.

"He's the only one here to whom it could possibly matter, so why not?"

Gimli whirled and cut down another Orc, and then another, before leaning upon his axe and catching his breath. "Is this some great secret, then? Because I must say, I am weary of them!"

"No, no secret, my star," said Thorin, though his heart was sinking. This was the first time he would bring news of recent death to his bright bold lad, and he found that he was dreading it. "It will soon pass around the world: Dáin Ironfoot is passed into the Halls of our Maker."

"Dramatic," Dáin grunted, even as Gimli's face paled and his eyes glittered with shock and sorrow.

"Zabadâl belkul, Uzabadâl," he said with the utmost respect, and he bowed his head low. "Birashagimi. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal."

"Ah, don't be like that, lad. It was a good death, an' I sold my life dearly," Dáin told him, looking a little uncomfortable. "And don't look _down,_ fer Mahal's sake: you're on a battlefield, keep your eyes on what you are doing!"

Gimli sighed, before lifting his head and his axe.

"That's better," Dáin said gruffly. "Lulkh."

Gimli's mouth twitched, as though a smile were fighting against his sadness. Then he squared his shoulders and charged behind the dreadful glowing van of the restless dead, a war-cry on his lips. "Baruk Khazâd!"

"Your star?" Dáin said conversationally, as the pair turned to watch him fight through the mass of heaving Orcs, undead ghouls and screaming Men and horses. "Never thought you were close to him."

"Gimli has been…" Thorin groped for the words to describe what Gimli had become to him. "He is a safe place for me. Gimli has been safety since my death. When all else seemed to be made of ashes and dust and grief, there was a bright spot and it was always him. He is not perfect, no. He is no genius, true, and he is often quick to anger and rash besides. He can be stubborn."

"Says Thorin Oakenshield," Dáin interrupted, his eyes twinkling. "No, go on."

Thorin gave him a half-hearted glare, before a beautiful axe-sequence from Gimli caught his attention and he found himself smiling again. "He is one of the best of us, one of the very best I have ever known. He will give his all, and then more besides, and then dig deeper and deeper yet. No matter the odds or the indignities or the sorrows he must face, he will go on. He will press into the midst of utter terror; there is nothing he will not endure for those he cares for. He will fight to his last breath, and then use it to sing and lift the hearts of his friends. He is faithfulness itself; he is steadfast beyond imagining. He will find the smallest scrap of hope in the middle of desolation, and hold it out to someone else. Quick to anger, aye – but quick to forgive, and quick to laugh, and quick to understand, and quick to compassion."

"And now _you_ sound like Glóin." Dáin tipped his head, watching Gimli catch up to the others, picking off the straggling Orcs that the Army of the Dead left reeling in their wake. "Care to explain all that with the Elf?"

"Complicated." Thorin cast about, looking for Legolas. "Where is he? It is to do with the nature of Elves, and the sea. You see, there is a malady amongst…"

He trailed off, gaping like a fish.

"I think we found him," Dáin said, sounding equally dumbstruck.

How had Thorin forgotten the utterly _insane_ bravery of this Elf? And how had he forgotten how preternaturally lithe and acrobatic he was? Even as he watched, Legolas leapt up the side of one of the huge tottering Oliphaunts, using his own arrows as a ladder. There, the Elf cut through the harness holding the entire tower aloft upon its back. With a scream and a crash, the flag-adorned thing came tumbling down, Men howling as they were sent crunching to the ground far below.

With a leap, Legolas was upon the now-bare animal's back. Three arrows into its hindmost skull, and the huge beast's legs failed. With a trumpeting scream, it staggered to the ground, useless back legs collapsing underneath it. Its trunk flew out, and the Elf came sailing down it as though carried on a breeze.

"I hate him," said Dáin, awestruck and breathless. "That was beautiful. I want a drink an' a pipe after watching that."

Gimli had been fighting close by, but he had frozen in disbelief as Legolas took down the Oliphaunt. As the Elf regained his footing on the ground he actually seemed a little surprised that his utterly foolhardy venture had _worked._

Gimli's mouth was open, and there was frank and open admiration in his eyes as he looked up at Legolas.

Legolas tipped his head to Gimli. His eyes danced wickedly.

"That," said Gimli hoarsely, "still only counts as one."

"I see what Óin means," Thorin mumbled to himself. "Embarrassing to share the same _air_ as them."

"Your count?" Legolas said, panting hard and smiling proudly.

Gimli's mouth snapped shut, and determination crossed his face. Then he stepped closer and brought Legolas' head down for a hard, quick kiss.

"That'll count as one for me," he murmured, and grinned at him. Then he launched back into the fray.

Legolas was still for a split-second, his fingers raised halfway to his mouth. Then he laughed to himself, before lifting his bow and beginning to fire again.

"Now I _really_ need that drink an' pipe," Dáin said, shaking his head. Then he sent an appraising look at Thorin. "Amazed at you, actually. I can't believe you're taking it this well."

Thorin fought his expression and thought rather guiltily of his bare forge for a moment. "Ah, well."

Dáin's eyes narrowed. Then he grunted. "Is anything left standing?"

"Yes!" he snapped in response, before wincing and tugging at one ear. "Some pens. Most of the door. My sword…?"

Dáin only chuckled and patted Thorin's shoulder. "Aye, I really have missed you."

  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Dain and Thorin, by [ Piyo-13](http://piyo13sdoodles.tumblr.com/post/118933626291/now-i-really-need-that-drink-an-pipe-dain)

  


It appeared that the battle was winding down. No Orc or Man could stand before the unstoppable force of the Dwimorberg host: not even Trolls or Oliphaunts could escape their clutches. The greenish, sickly chill rose from the earth like steam, and all around cries of war soon became cries of terror. The groans soon trickled into the usual sounds of battle's aftermath: shouts for help, the distant clash of arms, the whimpers of the wounded. Gimli pushed back his helm, his brigandine soaked all through with Orcish blood. "Are we done, do you suppose?" he said, peering through the unearthly mist.

"Behind you!" Dáin barked suddenly, and Gimli whirled around, axe held low and ready. A shape lurched in the gloom, and then a Troll, wounded and maddened with anger, rushed at him.

"Durin's beard!" Gimli swore, and leapt to one side. His axe lashed against the creature's thick hide, and it screeched and its head snapped to him. Its breath came hot and fetid through its nostrils.

"Gimli, beware!" Thorin shouted, and Gimli ducked and weaved and rolled out of the way as the Troll lumbered for him, its giant nail-studded club thudding against the ground.

"I think I can spot a bloody great Troll, but thanks for the warning," he managed, before reaching for his throwing axe.

But the holster was empty – he had given it to Merry, to safeguard him. Swearing again, Gimli yanked his knife from his belt and threw it with a practiced overhand cast. It turned end over end to land in the Troll's cheek, and it howled in outrage and pain.

"Damn, aim's off," Gimli puffed. "Shoulda kept my bloody axe – ah!"

The Troll blindly lashed out with his club and nearly caught Gimli where he stood. The Dwarf rolled again, and then charged forward with his head low and his axe ready. A swift horizontal slice and the Troll was upon its knees, the thick ligaments no match for the best Dwarvish steel.

Gimli ducked the club once more, before he gathered his legs and jumped. His boots hit troll-hide. He wasted no time perching upon the massive creature's shoulders, but immediately brought the axe around in a shining arc. The great head went bouncing away.

"Jump, Gimli, you have to…" Thorin began, but Gimli didn't quite move in time. The troll's body teetered forward, and Gimli was thrown onto the ground. His boots hit squarely, but he had to use one hand and his axe-handle to steady himself in a runner's crouch. One of his knees sank deep into the churned earth.

"Urgh," he said, standing with a grimace and looking at his hand. It had sunk into the mud up to the wrist. "Well, that's lovely. Welcome to Minas Tirith."

"Meleth?"

Gimli looked up.

Legolas kissed him, barely a peck. "Two," he whispered, before disappearing once more in a whirl of pale hair.

Gimli blinked, and then he grinned at nothing.

"Definitely over," said Thorin, and that same heavy ache he had always felt after a battle began to settle deep in his bones. "You can hear it now."

"Aye," Dáin said, hushed and serious. "Feel the tide turning. This city will stand."

"Now they can collect their dead." Thorin turned towards the white bulk of Minas Tirith, whole in the sunlight, if terribly battered. Smoke rose from several places within the walls: marauding Orcs always seemed to light fires. "Now we wait on the Ringbearer."

"The what now?" said Dáin irritably. "Another thing I don't know?"

"Ah." It was Thorin's turn to pat Dáin consolingly upon the shoulder. "I'll tell you later."

At that moment a horrified howl rang through the mists.

Both Dwarves sighed soundlessly in unison, their hearts sinking. Both Dwarves knew the aftermath of war all too well.

"Here we go," Dáin muttered.

"That's Éomer, nephew of Théoden of Rohan," said Thorin sharply, and he dragged his cousin over the corpse-strewn field to where the Marshall of the Riddermark had flung himself to the ground.

Éomer's face was split in a scream of anguish, though no sound now came forth. In his arms, the limp body of Éowyn lolled.

From the broken Gates of the city came the people of Gondor, picking through the mud and blood with stumbling feet. There were more cries of sorrow as loved ones were found, and yet more cries as loved ones were sought.

"Makes me think," Dáin said, his jaw rippling, "if any of our kin will find me that way, thrown aside like an old broken doll in the mud."

"They already did," Thorin said softly, not looking at Dáin. This had been too soon: ah, how had he let Dáin convince him? Too clever, always too clever and persuasive behind his genial bluntness. He had been dead for a mere _day._ "Dís brought you back to the Mountain, with Dwalin and Orla. You lie in honour, in the tombs for now."

_Bombur, though – Bombur lies in the open air._ _Bombur does not rest under stone._

Thorin pretended not to hear Dáin's breaths coming uneven and wet through his nose. "Damn, I told her not to do that," he said eventually in a thick voice.

"You know Dís." Thorin looked up cautiously. His cousin's eyes were glossy, but he appeared to have mastered himself. "Dáin, do you wish to return?"

"Hang on a mo," Dáin said, and he was frowning mightily as he peered into the gloom at something small and curled into a ball, trembling in the chill winter air. "That's not a child, is it?"

Thorin turned – and his heart stuttered in his chest. "That's Merry, Merry Brandybuck," he said, and then he turned on his heel and began to race for the city. "Stay with him! I will return!"

"Wait up! What's a Merry Brambleduck?" Dáin shouted after him.

"A Hobbit!" Thorin hollered back. "I must find Pippin!"

Dáin's voice was very, very annoyed as he bellowed, "and _w_ _hat's a Pippin?_ "

Racing away, Thorin forebore to answer. He paid as little attention to the battlefield as possible (though what little he saw made him thank Mahal and providence and all the small kindnesses of fate that Frerin was still safely with Thráin, and not at his side as usual). The broken remains of the massive Gates rose ahead, and he dug deep for more speed and pressed on and on. Where would Pippin be? With Gandalf, surely.

He bent his head to the chase, and determinedly did not think of how strange it was not to have his brother by his side after so long. It felt odd not to be running after a small, fleet figure that laughed at his slowness. He missed Frerin's irreverent comments, his unexpected wisdom, and even his occasional whining.

Where would Gandalf be?

Who knew. Óin had the right of it. Bloody wizards.

"Pippin, Pippin, Pippin," he said to himself as he came to a halt in the great bailey known as the Shipwheel Court, turning on the spot and raking the scene with his eyes. "Pippin, where would he-"

"Thorin!"

It was Narvi, and her face was worried as she pounced upon him. "Thorin, you're back, thank the stars – Pippin is missing, he ran out after Faramir was taken to the Houses of Healing. Gandalf is with the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, they make plans for those able-bodied enough to collect the wounded from the Pelennor, he cannot leave…"

Thorin shook his head sharply, trying to listen to the flood of words and process them. "Narvi, stop, stop, slow down - Pippin is gone?"

"He ran away, keep up!" she snapped, her eyes flashing with annoyance. "He scurried out, and Haban and I couldn't find him in the crowd. Hobbits are impossible to find! I have been searching for the last half-hour. Haban is with Faramir, watching him for any improvement."

"And is there any?"

Narvi shook her head, her dark face set and unhappy.

"There is yet hope. Gandalf brought me back once: he has arts we cannot understand," Thorin said, and glanced back at the Gates. Rohirrim were trailing into the City, the body of Théoden aloft on a bier, Éowyn wrapped in cloaks and held tenderly against her brother's chest. Éomer looked devastated, his face wet with tears.

"Oh, nekhushel," Narvi said, drawing back in horror.

"Too many young ones become Kings in war," Thorin growled to himself, and then shook his head again. Now was not the time for dark thoughts: now was the time to save the living. "Stay with Éowyn, would you? I will find our missing Took. Merry lies on the battlefield, his arm blackened to the elbow. You heard, then, of his great deed?"

"Aye, and of hers." Narvi rubbed her face, and then closed her eyes. "I wish I had seen it. I wish I could have seen blade finally put to one of those foul, stinking…" She broke off, her nostrils flaring.

 _"There's not a single one of us who can even come close to hati_ _ng Sauron as much as Narvi does,"_ said Haban's quiet voice in Thorin's memory. He tentatively laid a comforting hand upon the great craftsmaster's shoulder. "Strength, zarakâl."

She said nothing, but her shoulder slumped ever so slightly beneath his hand.

"Stay with Éowyn, leave Pippin to me," he said, and turned her gently back towards the citadel.

Narvi sighed, before giving him a measuring look. "All right," she said eventually. "I see now why we're all following your lead."

Thorin was a little surprised at that, and couldn't seem to find an answer. He watched wordlessly as the legendary craftswoman nodded to him and strode back through the crowd. Scurrying bands of Men and horses, all in their different liveries and armours, soon blocked her from his view.

"How in Mahal's name am I to find a Hobbit in _this?"_ he wondered, before taking a breath and retracing his steps through the milling masses towards the open plain of the Pelennor. On the Eastern horizon, boiling over the jagged peaks of the distant mountains, the air smoked and billowed as though in impotent rage. Smoke still belched over the Ephel Dúath, filling the sky with a foul fume.

As Thorin again neared the collapsed masonry that had once held up the Gate, he heard Gandalf's voice over the din. He spun to see the Wizard approaching, seated upon Shadowfax. He was slightly round-shouldered, sagging with fatigue. His eyes seemed darker and deeper somehow, as though shades of weary gruff old Gandalf the Grey were peering out from behind the face of this new and reborn Gandalf. "… made now!" the Wizard was saying sternly.

"The decision should be left to Faramir," the Man who rode at his side answered, a stubborn twist to his lips. He was tall and proud, a stylised swan sailing upon his cuirass. "I will not make it for him. I would have half the city clamouring for my head!"

"There are things moving in the shadows that you do not know, Prince Imrahil, and great names yet to be spoken," Gandalf said, frustration in every syllable. "Every moment you dither is another life that slips away. We cannot wait for Faramir."

"They are our enemy!"

" _Sauron_ is our enemy! These people have been brought far from their homes, many against their will, to die for a master who cares nothing for them! Will you condemn the ignorant, the misled and the enslaved to death?"

"Would you have me care for Orcs, next?" Imrahil said hotly. "I will have a revolt on my hands should I bring those Southrons into the city!"

Gandalf stilled, and then he said in a distant voice, "one day, yes. One day, there will even be mercy enough for Orcs. For now, can you not look upon another Man, and show them compassion?"

Imrahil gritted his teeth. "I cannot serve so many, Gandalf. The city cannot heal even our own, we cannot support the numbers of our own wounded!"

"How do you know," Gandalf said, looking out from under his bushy brows, "if you do not try?"

"Faramir should make this choice," Imrahil growled, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is not for me to decide! This is not my place!"

"Then allow me to relieve you of it," said a new voice. A tall shape was framed in the hollow gap of the broken Gates. The figure moved forward, and a jewel glimmered at its throat.

Gandalf relaxed, his face softening. "Aragorn."

"Who…?" Imrahil said, looking suspiciously up and down this shabby, grim-faced newcomer with the stern bearing and glittering star at his throat. Flanking him as always stood the broad, stalwart figure of Gimli and the willow-switch that was Legolas. Behind them were arrayed the Grey Company, their clothes and blades flecked with black blood.

Aragorn smiled briefly at Gandalf, before he fixed his serious gaze upon Imrahil. "Do not bring them into the city. You are right that there would be unrest. Let healers go to them instead, with food and tents, medicines and water. We must begin as we would continue. Let Sauron's crimes remain with Sauron: these people deserve kindness and compassion."

"Compassion?" Imrahil exclaimed. "And who are you to command me?"

Gandalf harrumphed, shifting in his saddle. "One who is a kinsman of the Lord Denethor would do better to use his eyes. Did you not see the device upon the Black Ships? The rumour is already spreading: do not tell me that you have not heard it, Imrahil the Fair!"

Imrahil's eyes darted back to Aragorn, who smiled faintly. Then they widened in awe.

Immediately, the Swan-Lord dismounted, his armour creaking and clacking, and fell to his knees. "Majesty," he said, and bent his head. "Allow me to be the first to say welcome home – welcome home, at long last!"

Aragorn's face shone in fear and wonderment and surprise (and perhaps a little sorrow?) and then he gripped Imrahil's arm and hauled him to his feet. "The time is not ripe yet, I deem," he said softly. "And I have no mind for strife with any except with our Enemy and his servants."

Imrahil looked doubtful. "But your banner showed the White Tree and the star of Elendil, clear as daylight! And you counsel mercy towards those who came here to despoil us?"

"I do." Aragorn looked back out over the plain with its carpet of groaning, crawling wounded. "We know nothing of the motives of these people: what lies have been told them, what terrors await their failure. But we have a chance – a small window of opportunity – to give them safety and an escape from their bondage. When you perceive the shackles around a slave's wrist would you not seek to free them, though the slave cannot see their chains with their own eyes?"

Imrahil stared at Aragorn, and then he bowed with utter respect. "Wise is our King indeed," he said, before he looked up and his lip quirked. "Though perhaps not wise enough to hide his own standard when coming to a place in disguise?"

"That's a fair point, actually," Gimli murmured, and Legolas covered a smile with his hand.

Aragorn chuckled ruefully. "It was a promise made and kept. Now come! Show me to the Houses of Healing. I hear there are those who sorely need my aid."

_His aid? What could Aragorn do that Gandalf could not?_

The Wizard was not paying him any heed, and it would be useless to try and distract him when the city and so many wounded hung in the balance. Thorin pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead for a moment, before leaving these Men to their deliberations and to their plans. Gimli was with them: Gimli would see them true. He had a Hobbit to find.

To his utter astonishment, a Hobbit then appeared, staggering through the gates as though summoned by his thoughts – though not the Hobbit he was so desperately searching for.

Merry lurched against a fallen block of masonry for a moment, his face shiny with sweat and his eyes glassy. He then wandered aimlessly, tripping every few steps, into the bailey. His arm was cradled against his belly, and the fingers were a dreadful veined black.

Behind him was Dáin. When he caught sight of Thorin, he waved an arm at Merry helplessly. "He followed the funeral bier," he said, worry in his voice. "These Hobbits are made of stern stuff, ain't they? He shook himself awake, and when he realised he was forgotten he trotted here all by his lonesome."

"Sterner than you know, cuz," Thorin said, and sucked in a breath as Merry tripped over his feet once more. Merry did not seem to be fully aware of his surroundings, and his head lolled on his neck. "Merry here stabbed one of the Nazgûl with that arm. He is afflicted with the Black Breath; he needs medicine, and care, he needs Gandalf."

"You're protective of him, aren't you," Dáin said, his eyebrows rising.

"He is Bilbo's cousin," Thorin answered, still peering anxiously at Merry.

Dáin paused. Then he said, "ah."

Thorin looked up, defensiveness leaping swiftly to his tongue. But Dáin only took his shoulder and briefly pressed their foreheads together: a quick, firm reassurance. "That's unfair," he said. "That's cruel, that is."

"There are crueller things," Thorin said hoarsely.

Dáin nodded once, and then glanced down at the dazed and weary Merry. "All right, what d'you want me to do?"

"Stay with him, as you have done. I will find Gandalf again: the Wizard can see us when he puts his mind to it," Thorin said, swallowing hard. Then after a beat he said, "thank you, Dáin."

"What's family for, eh?" Dáin squinted around at the ruined bailey and the shrieking, moaning wounded that were now being ferried into the city. "You always plan such… _unique_ reunions."

Thorin could only give him a half-hearted glare at that. Dáin grinned back, unrepentant.

The Hobbit shook his head as though to clear his mind of fog, his sodden curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. He blinked blearily for a moment, and then staggered towards a side-street.

"Where's he going?" said Dáin, and Thorin could only shrug.

"I don't think that he himself knows," he said, and sighed. "I will be back as soon as I can…"

"Wait, wait, would you look at that!" Dáin interrupted him, and he pointed down the alley. "Look, another one! How about that!"

"What?" Thorin whirled around – and sure enough, there was his absent Took, still clad in his singed Tower livery. "You slippery curly-headed devil! Little Bullroarer – little _eel,_ I should call you! Where in Mahal's name have you been?! I feared you lost!"

"Another of Bilbo's cousins, then?" said Dáin innocently.

Thorin didn't even turn to glare at him this time. "Yes."

"Thought so. You do a lot of worrying and protecting for a fellow who calls himself 'nothing but a whisper on the wind', don't you?"

"Merry!" Pippin shouted, and he raced to him as quickly as a Hobbit could move. "Merry! Thank goodness I have found you!"

Merry stirred in his daze, his eyes clearing a little. He blinked at Pippin, and then rubbed at his eyes. "Where is the King?" he said in a light-headed sort of way. "And Éowyn? I thought I was walking in a tunnel towards a tomb…"

Then he sat down all at once, plopping upon a doorstep. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he rubbed them away. "They have gone up into the Citadel," said Pippin, wringing his hands. "I think you must have fallen asleep on your feet and taken the wrong turning. But you are worn out, and I won't bother you with any talk. But tell me, are you hurt, or wounded?"

"No," said Merry dully. "Well, no, I don't think so. But I can't use my right arm, Pippin, not since I stabbed him. And my sword burned all away like a piece of wood."

Pippin's face was anxious. 'Well, you had better come with me as quick as you can," he said. "I wish I could carry you. You aren't fit to walk any further. They shouldn't have let you walk at all; but you must forgive them. So many dreadful things have happened in the City, Merry, that one poor hobbit coming in from the battle is easily overlooked."

"It's not always a misfortune being overlooked," said Merry, and his head lolled again. Then a trembling overtook him. "I was overlooked just now by – no, no, I can't speak of it. Help me, Pippin! It's all going dark again, and my arm is so cold."

"Lean on me, Merry lad!" said Pippin. "Come now! Foot by foot. It's not far." He coaxed Merry back onto his feet, and wrapped his arm around his waist. "This way, now. Easy does it."

"Are you going to bury me?" said Merry in a very small voice.

"No, indeed!" said Pippin, and the note of cheerfulness in his voice was far too forced to cover the fear and pity. "No, I am going to save you."

"Where are we going?" Merry mumbled as Pippin began to gently urge him along.

Pippin smiled at him. "We are going to the Houses of Healing."

"Poor brave little fellow," Dáin said beneath his breath, frowning thunderously. "He really shouldn't be walking, he ought to be carried." His muscles bunched beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

Thorin gave him a sympathetic look. "I know," he said. "And there it is. You said it yourself: trapped in a glass box. You would carry him, if you could. Wouldn't you?"

"Aye, what sort o' question's that? Of course I would." Dáin sighed as the two Hobbits made their achingly slow way out of the lane and began to climb the winding street up to the citadel. "But you know the old saying: if wishes were pigs, we'd all be riding."

Step by agonising step, Pippin led Merry along even as Merry swayed and murmured like one who was asleep. "I'll never get him there," mumbled Pippin, scanning the huge rise up to the High Seat and the Citadel. "We haven't even passed the fourth level gate, and there's seven of them!"

"Come on, Merry," Thorin urged. "Come on, brave one, you can do this. You have stabbed the Witchking of Angmar: will you let this hill defeat you? Pick up your feet, bold little hero. You can do this!"

Merry roused a little, his eyes rolling. Then he staggered forward a few more steps with a surge of unexpected energy.

"That's it!" Pippin coaxed, "that's it!" But the brief effort soon sapped Merry's energy, and he began to reel and totter once more. His breath rasped through his open mouth.

"Oh, Merry," Pippin whimpered, before his eyes flickered back to the crowds around them: people carrying buckets to quench fires, food passed around, small children crying, older children rushing about upon errands. "Is there no one to help me? I can't leave him here."

Then he blinked. "Bergil?"

"I can't stay!" hollered the young lad as he tore past. "I'm running errands for the healers, I must get back!"

"You are?!" Pippin fairly bounced at that. "Good! When you get there, tell them that I have a sick hobbit, a perian mind you, come from the battle-field. I don't think he can walk so far. If Mithrandir is there, he will be glad of the message."

Bergil's eyes flickered to Merry, and then he nodded quickly. "I will!" he shouted, and took to his heels again. "Speak later!"

Pippin watched him go, and then sighed.

"Don't move him further," Thorin advised him. "Quick thinking, Pippin, well done. Wait here for help, and try to keep him warm."

It was then that Pippin seemed to notice Merry's shivering, and he wrapped his arms around his cousin and gently sat him down, rubbing briskly to warm his clammy skin. "Oh, your poor dear hand," he moaned when he saw the colour Merry's sword-arm had turned. "Now, lean close, Merry-lad. Budge up so you get the last of the day's sunlight. That's it. Put your head in my lap."

  


  
  


Pippin and Merry, by [ kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/118934914809/please-full-view-for-best-view-reunion-since)

  


Merry sagged as his head was laid on Pippin's legs, and his eyes stared blearily. He did not seem to feel Pippin's gentle stroking of his hair, and after a while he began to cry again, soundlessly, tears inching down his cheeks.

"Why didn't we grab the Wizard when we saw him," Dáin said in frustration.

"I still make many mistakes, old friend," Thorin sighed and looked up at him. "I am not so changed."

Dáin's eyes narrowed. "Now there's a lie," he said, in that infuriatingly honest-yet-opaque way of his. "You're different. Not in some ways, no. Still impulsive, aye: still ready to rush in wi'out thinking. Still driven. Still a grumpy old cuss too. But you're calmer and more in control. Surer of yourself somehow. And I've never known you to be so affectionate, nor to speak openly of the things you love."

Thorin's gaze dropped to the paved stone beneath their feet. "You are kind, but you are wrong. You would not have said such things had you seen me after Legolas declared his feelings: control was the furthest thing from me. The dark thoughts still claw at me. I lose my way, even now. My lessons have been long and hard, and I am an imperfect student," he said, and Dáin smiled.

"Aye, _far_ more open," he said. "My point proven."

Thorin realised that, once again, Dáin had gently steered the conversation where he wanted it to go. He had a knack for that. "You bastard," he said without much heat, and gave a rueful smile in return.

Dáin shrugged guilelessly. "Just telling you what I see, lad."

"Lad? Dáin, I am thirty years your elder."

"Thorin, when you've been as decrepit as I have, _everyone_ looks like a beardless stripling. Ah! Here's the Wizard again! Took his time about it!"

Gandalf actually stopped in the middle of the winding road, his eyes fixed upon the two Dwarves. He drew in a great breath, and then he bowed his head to Dáin. "King Ironfoot," he said in his gravelly voice. "I am grieved to see you here."

"Better get a move on, or the Hobbit'll come a cropper as well," Dáin said, raising his eyebrows. Then he whispered to Thorin, "didn't think he'd spot us so quickly."

"Wizards are unpredictable. I expect all his senses are bent on his search," Thorin said, and then he raised his voice. "Gandalf! Pippin and Merry are here, upon a step."

"Ah," Gandalf breathed in sorrow as he saw the state of Merry. He immediately crouched down to press a hand to his brow, and then felt carefully over his discoloured hand. Pippin worried at his lip anxiously. At last Gandalf sat back, leaning upon his staff. "Well done, Peregrin Took. Now, allow me to carry him. He should have been borne in honour to the Houses of Healing, for his mighty deed has put him amongst the heroes of this land."

"He's so dreadfully cold," Pippin said in a trembling voice.

"Shh. Aragorn is here, he will heal him." Gandalf laid a comforting hand on Pippin's curly head for a moment, before he bent and lifted the senselessly-mumbling Merry. "This way."

"Now what?" Dáin said, watching the Wizard stride off, Pippin scurrying at his heels.

"Now we return to the Halls, I suppose," Thorin said. "We will come back later. For now, there is no more to report."

Dáin pulled a little at his beard. "And I suppose I'm getting peckish…"

Thorin bent his head to hide another smile. "Close your eyes, the stars will do the rest."

  


Knocking softly on his father's forge-door, Thorin hesitantly pushed it open at the soft "aye, come in." The same warm silence he remembered from long years past enveloped him: the smell of woodsmoke, the sharp acid tang of metals. Thráin was bent over a workbench, and his eyeglass was fitted to his good eye. He looked up as Thorin entered, and nodded tiredly at him. "Hello, inúdoy."

"Adad." Thorin glanced to the corner, where Frerin was bundled in a rough blanket (no doubt Hrera's work: her knitting was never her strong suit). A massive marmalade-coloured cat, affectionately known as Custard, was purring on his lap. Frerin's fingers were buried in her fur. His small face was blotched but dry, and he gave Thorin a wan little smile of welcome.

"Think we match, now," he said, and gestured at the side of his jaw where his beard stood out short and prickly.

  


  
  


Frerin and Custard, by [ Ursubs](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/119100501718/frerin-and-custard-from-chapter-37-of)

  


Thorin sat down beside him. "How are you, Frerin?"

His brother sighed and shrank into his blanket. Custard gave Thorin the fat-cheeked look of all contented cats everywhere.

"He's doing just as he ought," Thráin said calmly, his deep voice comforting. "Watching me to make sure I don't make any mistakes."

"As if I know," Frerin said with a snort, and his fingers scratched at Custard's ears. The cat rolled her head into the petting.

"Now, my boy," Thráin said, and he straightened and took Frerin's shorn cheek in his hand. "Do not speak of yourself that way."

Frerin wrinkled his nose, about to speak, but Thráin silenced him with a kiss to his brow. "You're always welcome here," he said, gentle and firm. "You needn't do anything you do not wish to. Stay and be sad, and I will be sad with you. Or leave with your brother. I'm here either way."

"As am I, nadadith," Thorin said, and he took one of Frerin's hands.

"I'm all right," Frerin said, but the pad of his chin was wobbling again, and his blue eyes were blinking rather too quickly. "I just. She. I don't want to see another battle, Thorin. I can't. I _can't."_

Thorin screwed his eyes shut and berated his own blind determination for a split second. "Then you will see no more battles, Frerin," he said, and threaded his fingers through his brother's. As always, the fleeting thought of _so small_ crossed his mind. "I am so sorry."

"No, I said I was all right," Frerin protested, and he clutched at Thorin's hand. "I said so, didn't I? Not just then, I mean, but before the battle, I said so. You asked me and everything. And I said I would stay. I thought I could see through another one. But there's so many – there's so many dead now, Thorin. So many – brothers and sisters and uncles and sons and wives and mothers – and I can't see them die without- without-"

Frerin's breath had begun to come faster, and Thráin made a clicking noise with his tongue. Custard immediately stood, bushy tail waving like a pine caught in a breeze, and then butted her head up against Frerin's chin. Her purr was like a thunderstorm.

Frerin sighed and buried his face in her fur.

Thráin then sat beside Frerin and opened his hand. "What do you think? Nearly finished?"

The pendant for Frís' nameday lay in his palm, glittering and sparkling. Frerin peeked out from behind clouds of orangeish fur, and made an indistinct noise.

"It's beautiful, father." Thorin looked upon the gold and diamonds and sapphires, and felt only sorrow. "Truly beautiful. She will love it."

Thráin kept his hand open, and finally Frerin uncurled to look at it more closely. "Open it," Thráin said, soft and undemanding.

Frerin's little hand reached out, and he clicked it open. Falling into two hexagonal halves, the pendant was revealed to be a locket. Inside was a rough sketch of three Dwarves: one a tall dark-headed warrior, one a steel-grey Dwarrowdam with a stern brow, and the smallest a bright golden youth with a sunny grin.

"It's beautiful," said Frerin eventually.

Thráin smiled and kissed his head again. "Aye, it was the contents made it so."

  


Frerin would not come to Erebor, and preferred to stay with Thráin for the time being. "Soon, nadad," he said. "Soon, all right?"

"Take all the time you need," Thorin said, and pressed their brows together for a moment. "All the time you need."

Frerin squinted at him, his lip quirking and a hint of his normal bright disposition peeking through his gloom. "Next time you pop over to see Gimli I'll come too. He helped you: perhaps he will help me also."

Thorin smiled. "Gimli is nothing if not generous. Rest, Frerin. I love you."

"Oh, shut up, you giant sap." Frerin yawned and snuggled down with Custard. "I'm going to sleep if you're going to be emotional and embarrassing at me."

Thorin chuckled, and then tousled the messy golden hair. Then he stood and nodded to Thráin, who winked solemnly, and left them to their close, comforting silence.

Dáin was eagerly waiting for him outside the Chamber of Sansûkhul. "All right, let's do it again," he said without preamble. "Erebor, I'm ready, I've waited long enough."

Thorin held up a hand, and then laid it on Dáin's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. "Relax, cousin," he said. "Calm down. Erebor will not fall in the space of a meal."

Dáin looked up at him from beneath his brows. "Let's go _now,_ before I lose my nerve."

Thorin did not ask if Dáin was sure. Together they made their way back to Thorin's usual seat. The chamber was all but deserted now: it was late, and most had sought their beds.

This time Dáin did not waste a moment, but stared with intent concentration upon the waters of the star-pool.

"Be wary," Thorin said, even as the stars rose again, their glow like marsh-mist rising from the surface of the underground lake. "Gimlîn-zâram is not always gentle…"

He did not get a chance to finish. The stars swallowed him with a vengeance, and he was sent hurtling through streaks of wildfire towards the lands of the living.

He landed on hands and knees, and shook his ringing head. "Ach!" he heard dimly. "My head!"

"I tried to warn you," he croaked, and Dáin managed a pained grunt. "Blink a bit. There's naught that can be done about the headache, I'm afraid. We have never been able to predict when the stars are kind or cruel."

"So it's just like everything else, then," Dáin said beneath his breath, and he straightened with a groan and rubbed at his eyes.

Thorin left him to it, and blinked his own eyes to clear them. Then he became aware of a voice speaking low, "are you sure?"

Another voice, one that Thorin recognised as the Stonehelm, answered. "Aye. Do it."

Thorin heard Dáin's sharp gasp of pain, and reached out to steady him with a hand upon his shoulder.

"What is the significance of this?" whispered Laerophen somewhere quite close to them, and Thorin peered up through his watering eyes to see the Elf standing with Merilin. They were upon one of the great platforms that surrounded the main gallery, and crowded all around the walls were Men and Elves and Dwarves. Many eyes were wet. They were clustered thickly together with no thought to difference of race: this war had levelled all differences.

"I do not know," she whispered back, and then was hushed by Wee Thorin.

"He's taking out the braids of the Crown Prince, shut up," he said baldly, and gave them a taste of his excellent scowl. "S'important."

"I can see them," Dáin said then, and the longing in his voice was so naked that Thorin felt like a trespasser into this moment. "He's before the throne."

Thorin could see him as well, looking small before the great empty cold seat. "Aye."

Thira was before him, and she was the one who had spoken before. "But you've always had it this way, ever since you were small," she said, and her hand smoothed down the hair that had held the beads of his princeship. It was slightly crinkled from keeping in a braid for so long.

"I know." The Stonehelm took a breath, and then put something in his mother's hand. "And I am no longer a child. I need not style myself after my heroes anymore. I must become my own Dwarf, and not measure myself by their worth."

Thira's lower lip trembled for a moment, and then she bowed her head. "I will miss it," she said, and her words cracked a little. "But that is a small price to pay for the pride I have in you in this moment."

"I am always your son, Amad," he said, in the gentlest tone imaginable.

"You are so much _his_ son right now," she said roughly, and her hand tightened around whatever it was he had given her. "He would be so… so p-proud, my Thorin."

"Put them in," he said. "No other hands will do."

It was at that instant that Thorin realised that the Stonehelm was not wearing his fur-lined greatcoat, nor the blue surcoat he had worn ever since he had come to Erebor. Instead he wore dark-grey, the colour of newly-cooled iron, with blue edging around his tunic. His startlingly reddish beard was unbraided, as was his black hair, and it rose in a shock above his brow. He looked less like…

"Always thought he favoured you," said Dáin in a hoarse voice. "He idolised you so, ever since he was a wee little thing. He had a figure of you that he took everywhere: he so loved that you shared a name. He wore his hair like you, wore that coat until it fell apart and then another after that…"

"He looks so much like Thira," said Thorin in surprise. "He has her brow and her mouth, her dark complexion and her height. I never realised."

Slowly Thira reached out and began to twist her son's hair. Her eyes slowly dripped tears that ran into her thick black beard as she worked, and the Stonehelm bent his head to let her reach more easily.

"Oh, Thira, my love, my iron beauty," Dáin whispered, and his face twisted for a moment before he controlled himself. "I tried - I really did try, darling one."

Thorin had never seen his clever, bluff, unflappable cousin so anguished, and he felt at a loss as to what to do. "Strength," he said eventually, and felt the utter uselessness of it. "They know, Dáin. They know you tried."

"Aye." Dáin sniffed hard, and then sighed out his shaking breath. His gaze never wavered from the sight of his wife and child. "An' that's one of the cruellest truths there is: that you can try your damndest, and still fail."

"You don't need to tell _me_ that." Thorin squeezed Dáin's shoulder again. It was rock-hard and trembling under his hand.

"Can you explain?" Laerophen whispered, and Wee Thorin gave him a rather more intense scowl.

"Shhh," he said, very firmly. "Later. Now we remember."

Merilin took Laerophen's elbow and shook her head. He subsided, frowning in confusion.

Finally the Stonehelm stood back, and allowed the assembled to see him. Where once he would have hovered uncertainly, unsure of himself and his place, now he stood with easy solidity and a quiet confidence that suited him well. His beard was still unbound, but his hair had been braided closely on either side of his head and allowed to stand tall above his brow. It fell down his back in a lion's mane, fierce and dangerous-looking.

Hanging where his braids had once been, affixed before his ears, were two boar-tusks that curved down and jutted out either side of his jawline.

"Oh," Dáin said faintly.

Dís stood and her eyes were set like stones in her face. "We remember," she said, her mithril voice ringing through the massive crowded room. "We remember."

"This once would have been for Dwarven eyes alone," the Stonehelm said, looking up at the thousands-strong cluster of peoples, who all watched him with avid fascination. "But upon this day war and loss and woe have made us one people beneath this mountain. And so, upon this day let us open ourselves to each other to share our sorrow."

"This'll go down in history," Dáin said, blinking rapidly. "This might even become a festival of remembrance, should we manage to survive this bloody siege. The day Elves, Dwarves and Men grieved as one."

"And it was your son who began it." Thorin gave his namesake an approving look.

"I'm going to explode at any second," Dáin mumbled under his breath. "Oh, m'lad, how you have learned - oh _inúdoy_ _._ _"_

The Stonehelm turned to Bomfrís, and he nodded.

She stepped forward with a face ravaged with grief, and lifted a knife. Upon another nod of permission, she took hold of his beard gingerly with one hand and brought the knife through the great red swathe of it. Hair drifted to the ground, settling around him like a fine red mist.

The Stonehelm looked up at her, and then cupped her cheek with one hand. His beard was ragged and terrible to see, but he was smiling a little through his sorrow.

"I hate it already," Bomfrís gasped around a sob. "You'd better grow it out fast."

He fingered the shortened length of her own beard. "Aye, and you. A crime, to cut such a long, fine and full beard as yours."

"Won't take long," she said. "We've always had fast-growing beards in our family. And thick too, comes from Dad's side…" her voice cracked and trailed away, her chest heaving. He smoothed her cheek with that tender hand.

"Good," he murmured when she had controlled her new tears. "I would see it grow with my own eyes."

"We remember!" Dwalin shouted, and he drew his dagger and held it aloft. His eyes were fixed upon distant memories, rather than upon the scene before him.

Knives were taken in hand, and then they were brought down as almost in unison every Dwarf cut a lock in memory of those lost. Then the tears came, and all remembered.

"Ow," whimpered Gimizh, who had cut his thumb.

"Ah, here, young one," Laerophen said, bending down. He drew back at the sudden look of fury Gimrís gave him, but only flipped his hand out. Upon it was one of the fabled knives of the Elves: ever-sharp and bright. "This will serve you better, and will not slip."

  


  
  


Gimizh and Laerophen, by [ fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/118994926370/gimizh-and-laerophen-i-sang-the-cradle-song-for)

  


Gimizh sniffled. "F'nk you." He took the knife and carefully cut off a lock of his hair, and then let it fall. Then he burst into tears. "I never asked him to make me a toy of him," he cried. "And he would have! He would have!"

"Shhhh, my little terror, my precious inúdoy," Gimrís said brokenly, and she folded him close in her arms and rocked him back and forth. Gimizh sobbed against her, uncaring. "Your uncle knew you loved him. He knew."

Beside her, Bofur stared sightlessly at nothing. Clutched in his hands was a great staff: Bombur's staff.

  


  
  


Bofur, by [ Aviva0017](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/118934978848/beside-her-bofur-stared-sightlessly-at-nothing)

  


Merilin looked around, her elven eyes wide in recognition and sympathy. "I understand," she breathed. "I understand. We are not so different after all."

Slowly the crowd mastered itself as the rite of grief was ended. Silence fell once more as the Stonehelm took the crown from Jeri and placed it back upon his head. Then the King mounted the dais to the throne, turned around to look out at the assembled – and sat down.

There was a sigh that echoed around the room as he did so, as though every Dwarf could see the shape of the future seated there. The Stonehelm laid his hands on the arms of the throne and Thorin could see his fingers tightening: the tendons showing over his knuckles. Then he said, "Let beards be rent, let tears be spent. To those who shelter here, to those who came to our aid, and to those who sorely need it. To those who kept us safe, to those who keep us safe, to those who lost their lives in doing so. Dwarves and Men and Elves, let us be united as one in our grief. This day and all days: we remember."

A sudden movement made Thorin startle out of his solemn awe, and his eyes flickered over to see Bard, Prince (now King, he supposed) of Dale, standing abruptly from his seat, placed in honour at the right side of the Throne.

The Man's stern face was awash with sadness, pity, and fellow-understanding as he came to stand before the throne. "King Thorin," he said, and he pressed a hand over his heart. "I know you to be a stalwart fighter, a fierce enemy and a loyal friend. May we," he stopped for a second, his throat working furiously, "may we continue as our fathers did before us: as friends."

The Stonehelm stood at once and grasped Bard's hand. "Yes," was all he said, but the roar that rose from the walls was huge and defiant. _Yes! Yes, we will not fall, though you throw all the black hosts at our walls and kill our loved ones and our Kings! We do not kneel before your might! Though you kill us, we are not defeated! We are not alone!_

"King Thorin," called Laerophen in a clear voice, standing swiftly. "The Elves of the Greenwood stand by you. We fight as one!"

The shout redoubled, and the Stonehelm looked at the Elf with amazement. "And can you speak for your father in this?" he said, nearly drowned by the din.

Laerophen's face screwed up uncertainly – an expression no doubt nearly invisible to these Dwarves, but now noticeable to Thorin's more practiced eye. "I can be very persuasive," was all he said.

"Give him a cookie," Gimizh sniffled. In some quirk of luck he said it in a momentary lull in the cheering, and thanks to the excellent acoustics it was heard by nearly everyone. The resulting ripple of laughter was rather hysterical, but it was genuine.

Dís' hard expression softened ever so slightly. "Oh, Gimizh, nidoyel," she murmured. In the background, Barur Stonebelly could be seen laughing and crying simultaneously.

Beside the throne, Jeri covered their mouth with their hand so as to hide a sudden smile. "Little scoundrel," they said fondly.

The Stonehelm raised his hands. "Thank you, Prince Laerophen. We fight as one." Then his lips twitched. "We will make some store of cookies - just in case."

Laerophen actually smiled at the King – an open smile. "That may be wise."

The Stonehelm grinned back, before he grew serious once more and his head lifted to the huge and diverse crowd huddled all around. Many were dressed in borrowed clothing or wrapped in blankets, and some were cradling wounds still. "We take this brief moment to remember," he called, and his voice rang from the highest rafter. "Remember them! Remember their wisdom, their strength, their foolishness, their humour, their love! Remember what we have lost this day!"

"Not the way I would have done it," Dáin sniffled, but his chin was held high and his eyes were full of love. "He's picked up some stuffy northern formality somewhere. Silly lad."

"You should be proud," Thorin told him.

Dáin glanced at him. "I can _never_ ," he said emphatically, "say how proud. There's no tongue in the world could put words to it."

A soft, surpassingly sweet voice began to sound through the massive chamber, and then Thorin saw the celebrated singer Barís Crystaltongue standing slowly. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her fabled voice was choked with tears. It was no great masterpiece of music she sang, no display of virtuosity, flexibility and range.

At the very first note, all of Bombur's many children and grandchildren crumpled.

  


  
  


Baris, by [ fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/118983223725/i-have-so-many-designs-for-baris-i-just-love-her)

  


[[Broadbeam Cradle-song, performed and composed by determamfidd]](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/cradle-song-choral)

"It was a very special day  
The most special beyond measure  
Because it was upon that day  
That Mahal made a treasure.

"He took the diamonds from the sky,  
And made them glow and glow  
Then he put them in your eyes  
And how I love them so."

To one side, Thira was crying silently. Bani's arm was wrapped around her tightly, and her head was pillowed on her friend's shoulder.

"He took the shine of silver  
As bright as bright can be,  
He fashioned it into your smile  
And then gave you to me."

"He took the gentle gleam of gold  
And cupped it in his hands  
And made a loving little heart  
The best in all the lands."

Dáin gasped, his chest heaving. "Nope, I was wrong," he managed. "I'm not ready. I'm not. I'm not!"

A strange calm settled over Thorin. "I told Balin once," he said, "that he should stay and witness Gimli's grief in Khazad-dûm. Do you know why?"

Dáin's face was nearly unrecognisable. He shook his head.

Thorin smiled faintly at him. "To know how much he was loved."

"He took the mithril sweet and pure  
And made a little soul  
And then he saw my empty arms,  
And so he made them whole.

"I thank him for you every day,  
And love you through and through  
And with each morning sun that dawns  
I am more in love with you."

Bofur slowly took off his hat, and held it over his face as his shoulders shook violently. Dori scooted closer to him. "Last one," he gasped into it, muffled. "Never thought… Bombur was younger'n me, how can _I_ be the last one…!"

Dori's face was very grave as he put an arm around Bofur's shoulders. "If you ever find the answer to that, Mister Bofur my dear friend," he sighed. "Kindly let me know."

"An' me," said Glóin from behind them, his nose reddened from weeping. Mizim was gripping his hand tightly, her glorious thick white beard unbound. A short curl indicated where she had cut a lock.

"And me," Dwalin added sombrely. Orla linked her smallest finger with his, and his shoulders slumped.

Dís said nothing at all.

"Wherever you may wander,  
And whatever you may mine,  
You are always loved, my baby,  
Until the end of time."

  


  
  


The Cradle Song, by [ fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/118926927095/baris-sings-chapter-37-of-sansukh-status-update)

  


Bard was looking at his hands. "I remember this song," he said, frowning. "How…?"

The Stonehelm laughed a little, and reached out to grip his wrist. "An old Broadbeam lullaby," he said. "No doubt my father sang it now and then. I know he knew you as a child, and he had a knack for getting small fussy infants to sleep."

Bard blinked. "That… seems so unlikely. It is not – _was_ not his reputation."

"He loved children," Thira said unexpectedly. Her voice shook. "He loved their laughter. He would pull faces at them in the middle of solemn trade meetings."

"Oh Mahal, he did too, the old sod," huffed Glóin. "He'd cross his eyes, and chuckle at the way they giggled at him."

Jeri laughed and leaned on their axe. "He used to sit them on his lap and pretend to defer to them on decision-making. 'Nope, nothing doing', he'd say, 'the boss here says it's a no-go. Go away and bring back better terms.' And woe betide the idiot who actually addressed the King instead of the child. It made guard-duty a lot less boring, let me tell you."

"It was particularly amusing to watch the more self-important petitioners stumble," Orla said. Her hood had been cast over her hair – a Blacklock tradition of mourning.

"Pocket full of sweets," Wee Thorin added wistfully.

"He made a bargain wif me," Gimizh said, and Bofur fumbled for his son's hand. "I mucked it all up, though."

Jeri shook their head. "Not your fault, young one," they said gently. "Don't blame yourself."

"Ach," Dáin breathed, and then Barís' remarkable voice – rough and full of emotion and not silky-smooth as usual – fell to a near-whisper.

"It was a very special day  
The most special beyond measure  
Because it was upon that day  
That Mahal made a treasure."

"Get me out of here, I can't be Balin," Dáin muttered. "Why must they mourn me so?"

Thorin watched as Bomfrís leapt to her feet to run and embrace her sister. They clung together, their heads buried in each other's shoulder. "I watched," he said. "I did not think you would mourn me. I watched you grieve for myself and Fíli and Kíli - I could hardly bear it, but I watched. And now I am glad that I did. For that was the first step to understanding the value of my life and myself."

Dáin gave him a startled look. "You old fool, of course we grieved," he choked.

Thorin raised his eyebrows at him. "You were loved, Dáin. You are loved."

Dáin blinked at him with glossy eyes for a second, and then just as he had done for Balin outside the gates of Moria, Thorin enfolded him in an embrace and held him as he broke.

The massive crowd began to disperse even as Dáin wept.

"I hate you so much for singing that," Bomfrís said in a rough voice, and Barís laughed into her hair.

"I know, I knew you would. I need a drink. That was the hardest thing I've ever sung."

"Urgh, Telphor's beard, one for me too," Bomfrís said, and grabbed her sister's hand. "Come on then, it's breaking up. Time for the drinking to begin."

Barís stood still as a stone and let her sister tug at her hand. "Oh no, not for you," she said adamantly. "Are you nuts?"

Bomfrís froze. "Uhhh."

Barís rolled her eyes, and then sent her mother a look loaded with exasperation. "Seriously? She thinks we don't know. Bomfrís. You are part of the _worst family in existence_ to hide it from."

Bomfrís gulped audibly, her eyes darting between Alrís, Barís and the Stonehelm – who looked puzzled.

"Water for you, little raven," said Alrís firmly. "And stay away from the fish."

Dáin's face had seized in an indescribable expression. "What. _What._ "

Alrís tutted. "Really now, Bomfrís. How many children do I have?"

Bomfrís paled as the Stonehelm's mouth slowly opened in astonishment and realisation. "I was going to say!" she blurted, and whirled to face him. "I promise, I was going to tell you! Just… it all happened so _fast_ and there's a war and then you're the _Crown Prince_ and I am the absolute last Dwarrow in Middle-Earth who should be a bloody Princess – and now you're the KING, and I can't – Thorin, don't look at me like that! Don't look at me like that – I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, please…"

Bard had begun to chuckle. He slapped the Stonehelm on the back. "It seems congratulations are in order!"

The Stonehelm barely seemed to notice. He nearly stumbled to where his lover stood. "You're sure," he said in a voice brimming with suppressed emotion.

She sniffled inelegantly, and nodded.

"Perhaps two months," said Alrís with a certain air of expertise, "if the noises coming from the water-closet are any indication. Smaller meals, my lass, but more of them. That'll help you hold onto your lunch." She softened then. "Your father would be so happy, Bomfrís."

Gimrís shook her head in exasperation. "Oh, for Mahal's sake, you should have told me!" she snapped. "I can keep a secret – I'm a healer!" She stabbed a finger at her. "You're seeing me first thing in the morning, understand? No excuses. Barís, make her do it. Carry her if you must!"

  
  
Gimris, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/124789702630/a-collection-of-scribbles-of-some-awesome-ladies)  


Bomfrís bit her lip wretchedly even as the Stonehelm stared wordlessly at her for a long moment.

Then he caught her up in a massive embrace that swept her off her feet. She yelped in surprise, and then she grabbed his face and kissed him with desperate abandon. "So, I'm pregnant," she said breathlessly.

"That's wonderful," he said, just as breathless, and then he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed their heads close together. "Oh, _Bomfrís_."

Dáin's face had not yet unfrozen from its rictus. "I knew it, I said so, I bloody _told_ him," he said dazedly. "The Council is gonna have collective apoplexy."

Thorin beamed at him. "You're going to be a grandfather."

"I'm going to haunt his bloody socks off, is what I'm going to do," Dáin mumbled. And then he leapt into the air, his mismatched heels clicking. "I'm going to be a grandfather! I'm going to be a grandfather! Thorin, I'm going to be a grandfather!"

Thira smiled tremulously, her hand reaching out to clasp Dís' in a tight grip, threading their hard, wrinkled fingers together. "He so loved children," was all she said.

...

_TBC._

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Nekhushel – sorrow of all sorrows  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Gimizh – Wild  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> Zabadâl belkul – Mighty leader  
> Uzabadâl – The greatest leader  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Idmi - welcome  
> Birashagimi – I'm sorry (literally, "I regret")  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Nadadel – Brother of all Brothers  
> Nadadith – little brother  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> Sansûkh(ul) – Perfect (true/pure) Sight  
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal (formal goodbye)  
> Khuzd - Dwarf  
> 'adad – father  
> 'amad – mother  
> Baruk Khazâd! – Famous Dwarven war-cry "The axes of the Dwarves!"  
> Zarakâl – He/She that is a master  
> Lulkh - idiot
> 
>   **Sindarin**  
>  Laerophen – Tree Song  
> Merilin – nightingale  
> Meleth - love
> 
> Some lines taken from the films and from _The Return of the King,_ from the Chapter 'The Houses of Healing.'
> 
> In the Appendices it is confirmed that all of Dale took refuge in Erebor during the war in the North, and that Dale was sacked.
> 
> Prince Imrahil was indeed the uncle of Faramir and Boromir, and was rumoured to have Elven blood.
> 
> The song is my own work (gulp) and sheet music is available upon request. Contact me through [tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com).
> 
> Custard appears here thanks to the crazed imaginings of liketotessecret. We cannot explain the pig.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you so SO SOOO much for reading, for your reviews and kudos and kindness. Every single one brings me so much joy. Thank you.**


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Here (as has become custom, lol) is the list of fanworks! YOU SHOULD GO LOOK AT THEM, THEY ARE AMAZING.
> 
>  **Art and artiness**  
>  Lacefedora: [Dain Ironfoot Pinup](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/121793401293/lacefedora-quick-beat-up-dain-pinup-for), [Gimris](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121568063776/gimris-in-17), [Merilin](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121419698141/determamfidd-requested-merilin-in-20-well), [Jeri](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121420864886/jeri-in-8-pretty-please), [Bomfris](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121406965361/poplitealqueen-also-asked-for-bomfris-in-16), [Thira](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121400673846/poplitealqueen-requested-thira-in-8), [Pippin](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/121371728419/i-present-to-you-you-as-pippin-or-the-true), [Laerophen](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121395789521/laerophen-18-for-the-pallette-meme-please), [Thranduil and Laindawar](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121259784346/i-dont-know-if-youre-still-taking-requests-for), [Barur Stonebelly](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121251319766/determamfidd-requested-hnnnnngh-perhaps-barur), [Dis](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121234263656/do-dis-in-2-pretty-please-with-sugar-and-love-on), [Wee Thorin](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121173908306/15-wee-thorin-please-nobody-ever-makes-art), [Balinith](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121177778191/actually-scratch-that-balinith-on-15-and-6-for), [Aragorn](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121165833631/might-i-please-request-sansukh-poc-aragorn-in-11), [Fris](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121158425761/colour-pallet-6-fris), [Gimizh and Laerophen](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121146872831/palette-thingy-gimizh-and-laerophen-in-12-or), [Gloin and Mizim](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121102032676/determamfidd-requested-oooooh-even-gloin-and), [Thorin and Bilbo, Gimli and Legolas (NSFW)](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121092309441/alternate-hairy-butts-versions-for-poplitealqueen).  
> Ninayasmijn: [Dwarrowdams and Thorin](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/121792806018/ninayasmijn-felt-like-drawing-a-dwarrowdam-was)  
> fishfingersandscarves: [Gloin and Mizim, ch 5](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/121638133753/fishfingersandscarves-dont-mind-me-just), [Chamber of Sansukhul concept art](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/121471272985/concept-art-for-gimlin-zaram-i-remembered-that), [**Pages 5-9 of the Sansukh Graphic Novel**](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/119755242813/fishfingersandscarves-pages-5-9-of-the-sansukh)  
>  the-dragongirl: [Baris Crystaltongue](http://the-dragongirl.tumblr.com/post/121491217111/since-an-interest-was-expressed-in-seeing-these-i)  
> somethingincorporeal: [Team Second Breakfast](http://somethingincorporeal.tumblr.com/post/121349339506/team-second-breakfast-is-in-the-house-i-dont)  
> aviva0017: [Bomfris, ](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/120908940718/another-one-done-im-on-a-roll-xd-bomfris) [Thorin Stonehelm](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/120725354728/more-drawing-adventures-thorin-stonehelm-from), [Baris Crystaltongue](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/119319323533/their-eldest-daughter-the-famous-musician), [Jeri the Sprout](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/119074017053/and-then-there-was-a-food-fight-xd-they-really), [Bofur, ch37](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/118934978848/beside-her-bofur-stared-sightlessly-at-nothing)  
> poplitealqueen: [Thorin Stonehelm](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/120761594919/this-is-the-fault-of-both-aviva0017-and), [Bomfris, ch36](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/118545792694/bomfris-daughter-of-alris-if-you-think-this-is),  
> archnemeton: [Bilbo and Thorin, ch 34](http://archnemeton.tumblr.com/post/121018093293/from-sansukh-chapter-34-by-determamfidd-this-was)  
> chess-ka: [Orla](http://chess-ka.tumblr.com/post/120295597046/its-orla-another-amazing-oc-from-determamfidds%22), [merilin](http://chess-ka.tumblr.com/post/120205189041/merilin-the-extremely-cool-elf-warrior-from),  
> thecuriouscuttlefish: [Thorin Stonehelm](http://thecuriouscuttlefish.tumblr.com/post/120131216710/i-had-an-irrepressible-urge-to-draw-thorin)
> 
> (cont. in End Notes!)
> 
> ...
> 
> Also for your enjoyment: [the preview of Chapter Two of the Sansukh Podfic](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com/post/120722744670/while-we-continue-to-work-our-way-through) is up for your listening pleasure! Huge thanks to Ricky and HD, the wonderful mods. It is SUPERB, and I can't wait to hear the whole thing!

Word had been sent to the Gate, and Aragorn had been whisked away faster than thought to the Houses of Healing. The Dúnedain milled in the ruins of the court. Legolas and Gimli stood awkwardly, for the moment, it seemed, forgotten.

"What was your tally?" Legolas murmured, and he glanced down at Gimli. He would not soon forget the sight of him kneeling in the midst of battle after felling the great troll, rooted to the earth like a mighty tree.

"Two," Gimli said, and his eyes shone with merriment. "As to the number I killed, I care not. That wasn't what I was counting."

Legolas felt his ears heat.

Elladan was watching them with a knowing look in his eye. "What now, masters?" he said. "Do you wait with us, or do you follow Aragorn?"

Legolas shot the son of Elrond a sharp look, but Elladan's expression was guileless, free of any malice or disgust. Behind him, Elrohir was leaning against the building where they had stabled their horses, and upon his face was a small, secretive smile. Legolas felt his hackles rise. They were an unknown factor, and Legolas did not like ambiguity. Aragorn's acceptance was a certainty, but these Elves descended of heroes and the highborn… how would they look upon an Elf who gave his heart to a Dwarf? Or would they care little about such things, being of mixed parentage themselves?

Gimli let out a sigh. "I suppose we ought to get after him. No telling what messes he gets into without us there to watch his back." Then he shifted a little. "And I'd like to see Merry and Pippin hale and whole, for my part."

"And I for mine," Legolas added. "But we would be a hindrance. It would be best to wait."

"No doubt," Gimli said, a trifle gloomily. "Waiting it is, then."

But at that moment a Man clad in the livery of the Tower came to them. "You are the companions of the Lord Elfstone?" he said, and at their nod he snapped a bow. "You are to be given lodgings and refreshments. If you will follow me?"

"For refreshments I might just follow you anywhere, laddie," Gimli said fervently. "Lead on."

The Grey Company quickly gathered their things. They followed the Man as they made their way through the city, up and up through shattered streets and wrecked gates, through six of the levels towards the citadel. Mostly they walked in silence, their tongues too weary for idle talk.

"It will be Mahal's own work to clean all this up," Gimli said, looking around. "I should bring a few of my people here: they would enjoy the challenge."

"And the trees are starved of sunlight from that cursed smoke from the east," Legolas agreed. "Elves could do much to help them."

Finally the high tower was before them. Beyond could be seen a low building all clad in white stone: the Houses of Healing.

"Have you heard any news from the Healers?" the Man asked as he led them through black and white marble halls. Gimli shook his head, and Legolas lowered his eyes.

"Alas, no," he said. "Did you have kin amongst those taken there?"

"Not kin, no." The Man's throat bobbed, his eyes staring determinedly ahead. "The Lord Faramir, he is loved by everyone in this city. It's well-known that his father did not hold his life as dearly, and so the rumour is flying everywhere. Does he live?"

"Aye, from all we have heard," Gimli said. "He lives."

The Man let out a sigh. "That is all that can be hoped, then. I had thought that maybe the two strange companions of the Lord Elfstone might have known more…"

"Bless my beard, we've only just arrived!" Gimli exclaimed. Legolas' mood, as always, lifted at this display of pure Dwarvish spirit. "Give me a place to wash the grime from me, and I shall be off to the Houses in a trice, make no mistake. I'll sit at the doorstep if I must. For we have a dear friend amongst their patients as well."

The Man shot them an enquiring look. "Oh?"

"A Halfling, Perian in the Elven tongue," Legolas explained. "He was in the thick of the battle."

"Halflings!" Unexpectedly, the Man smiled broadly. "Ah, my eldest lad Bergil is great friends with their prince! I am honoured to know him also. Peregrin son of Paladin is a fine guardsman of the White Tower, and we owe him Faramir's life."

Gimli stopped where he stood, coughing. "Guardsman?! _Prince?_ "

Legolas patted Gimli's back, before turning to the Man again. "Your name sir?"

"Beregond, son of Baranor," he said proudly.

"Peregrin son of Paladin, Prince amongst Hobbits," Gimli muttered. "What has that rascal gone and gotten himself into? Hobbits! I shall turn as white as my father."

"Pippin has risen in the world, it seems," Legolas murmured. He was still a trifle irritated with his Dwarf. The high-handed stubborn self-sacrifice he had displayed was still hanging unaddressed in the air between them, unspoken. Yet Gimli's ever-warm nature and humour and sheer _Gimli-ness_ was slowly crumbling his ire, like waves upon a rocky scree.

No. Not like waves. No.

Gimli was giving him that piercing look in his deep eyes. Legolas pulled himself together and began to walk on after the Tower Guard once more. "Where do we go, Beregond?" he asked.

Beregond glanced back. "The Prince Imrahil has ordered you quartered in a house in the upper citadel for now, though other lodgings may be found if they do not suit?"

"Why, what's wrong with a citadel?" Gimli said, and he patted at his belt and drew out his pipe. "Ah."

"Not here, surely?" Legolas wrinkled his nose.

"Pipe comes after battle, that's how it goes lad," Gimli said, and grinned up at him. "But perhaps you're right: I will wait until we are comfortable and settled. I never did like smoking indoors anyhow. Master Beregond, calm yourself! I am sure the citadel is most suitable."

"We are at the topmost peak of the city," Beregond said apologetically. "I am sorry: I did not think that… We could house you in the lower quarters if that is more to your liking?"

"And walk all the way back down again? Thank you kindly, we'll pass," Gimli said with a toss of his head.

"Are you sure? The light may grow quite fierce in the mornings…"

Legolas burst out laughing. "Oh, Gimli, he seeks to make you comfortable, can you not see? Master Beregond, I have thought as you do, but let me assure you – Dwarves do not need layers upon layers of stone above their heads to find ease. Gimli will be well enough in the citadel."

Gimli's face was a picture. He cleared his throat. "Aye, well, layers upon layers of stone don't hurt none, either," he muttered, and then he looked up at them both. His eyes glittered. "And Elves can bide fine without a single twig in the near vicinity, so don't fret on Legolas' behalf either. Though don't be surprised if the whole place is overgrown by the time we leave!"

Elladan and Elrohir both laughed. "Perhaps!" said Elrohir. "Though you honour us with such praise! I had no idea you thought so highly of our skill with growing things, Master Gimli."

Gimli shook his shaggy head at them. "After Fangorn and Isengard, you too would learn to expect nothing but strangeness from growing things, as you put it!"

"I am sorry if I cause offense," Beregond said, and his cheeks had turned quite red. "You are the first Elves and Dwarf I have ever seen."

"And fine examples we make, battle-painted and filthy as we are," Legolas had to say, smiling. The stains of war and hard travel still clung to them, their clothes soaked through with sweat, blood and mud and worse, their faces grimy. Gimli's hair and beard had frizzed something shocking, and Legolas knew that his own braids were slipping out.

"No offense taken, lad," Gimli said, his expression softening. Oh, his great compassion, his great forgiveness: Legolas marvelled at it. So many small slights and all of them brushed away as though none could ever catch upon his sturdy hide, daunt his smile, nor slow that fierce arm. "Don't blush so! Is this our sunlit flet amongst the clouds then?"

For they had reached the inner corridors of the citadel and there was a corridor before them. "Yes, these are the guest quarters," said Beregond. '"There is a washroom in each one, though the water is not warmed…"

Gimli pulled a face, but Legolas said eagerly, "that is well. Thank you, sir. We will pass your good wishes on to Pippin."

"I will bring food and leave it for you after you have bathed. Thank you," He said, and bowed to them, before leaving.

Elladan cocked his head. "Will we meet with you later?"

"Yes, though after we are rested," Legolas told him.

"No veren," said Elrohir in a far-too-innocent manner as he opened one of the doors. Elladan smiled faintly as he left, and Legolas bristled a little. One by one the Grey Company disappeared into the rooms, and Legolas and Gimli were left alone.

"Which one do you want, then?" Gimli said, looking about at them.

Legolas paused, his hand upon a door already. "You wish to take your own quarters?" He tried not to show the sudden stab of disappointment, but Gimli had learned to read him all too well.

"Nay, Legolas," he said, and came to rest his broad hand upon Legolas' shoulder. "I would wake in the night and not know where I was, were you not beside me with your wide-staring eyes as always. It's been so long now since I slept apart: it would feel wrong. I meant, which of these rooms should we take as ours?"

 _Ours._ The word gave his heart wings, and he smiled down at Gimli again. Oh, his father would be so dismayed to see Legolas behaving so unrestrained! "I thought this one," he said, and pushed open the door.

It was dark and cool inside the room, with greyish white walls. The furnishings were rich, with dark woods and velvets upon the walls and the bed. Gimli eyed the soft coverlet with undisguised longing for a moment, and then he stepped into the room before Legolas and looked around more thoroughly. "Hasn't been used in a long time," he said. "Old cold stone, here. The air has barely been disturbed but for recent cleanings…"

Legolas carefully placed his beautiful Galadhrim bow by the bed, and his pack down upon a low table. "This great citadel feels cold to me," he said. "And I do not suffer the chill as you do."

"Aye, but you suffer other things," Gimli said beneath his breath, and he laid his axes down in a corner. "Legolas-"

"In a moment, Gimli-nin," Legolas said, and cold fear gripped at his guts for a swift second. He could not face the longing again, not weary and bedraggled like this. "I need to be rested for such a conversation, I fear. Can it wait?"

Gimli looked at him from under his brows, before nodding. "As you will, lad."

Then he dropped his pack to the floor and raised his arms above his head, arching his back. His fists balled, his wrists cocking as his muscles pulled out of their tense knots. His face screwed up. "Ahhh, I have wanted to do that all day! My arms ache. I want my pipe, and a bath, and an ale. And food. And I'm not fussy about which order they come in."

Legolas watched with undisguised interest as Gimli stretched as far as his frame would allow. Gimli was just so vibrant, so incredibly vital. So utterly unlike himself. They were so very different. It seemed that everywhere Legolas was slender Gimli was broad. Heavy, not light. Massive-armed and thick-necked, with strong stout legs and incredibly wide across the shoulders, yes – and a stocky waist, not whiplike as those of Elves - all dense muscle beneath his furry skin and layer of padding, no doubt.

Would his belly be soft or hard to the touch? He already knew the feel of Gimli's shoulder under his hand: hard as granite.

"Stop staring at me, Elf."

Legolas blinked, and realised that Gimli was grinning at him. "You stare at me," he said, trying not to let a note of accusation enter his tone. He had a feeling he was failing.

"I do not!"

"You do. When you think I am not looking."

Gimli waved a hand dismissively, pulling off his helm and letting it clatter to the floor. "Well, you're very attention-grabbing. All golden and twinkly and shiny and that. Most distracting. It's a bit ostentatious, to my mind."

Legolas' eyebrows rose, and he tried as hard as he could not to laugh. "Shiny, am I?"

Gimli turned away, muttering to himself in the percussive Dwarven tongue as he began to remove his armour. That language had once sounded so harsh to Legolas' ears: now, it sounded much like deep and ancient music, like boots ringing upon rock, like the slow slide of rivers under the ground and of the glint of metal in darkness. Legolas smiled again, before turning back to his own preparations.

"Cold water again," Gimli said mournfully as he kicked off his boots, at last stripped to hose and tunic. Legolas had lost track of how many layers he had removed. "No doubt you're pleased, though."

"Pleased enough for the chance to bathe without caring for the temperature of the water, no matter what it is," Legolas said. Then he hesitated.

Gimli immediately seemed to sense his unease, and his eyes flicked back up to him. "Legolas?"

"I am still very irritated with you," he said, deciding to say it bluntly. Gimli did not speak as Elves did: he did not talk around the point, hearing the meaning between the breaths and the words. He would like plain truth. "But I am too relieved that we are both safe to care."

Gimli cocked his head. "Aye, I know the feeling," he said, slow and deep. "Don't you _ever_ pull one of those Oliphaunt stunts again. I thought my heart had stopped."

Legolas felt his irritation prickle. "If you will not make my decisions for me, aye," he retorted.

With a sigh of resignation, Gimli sat down on the edge of the high bed. His feet barely reached the floors. "We have not spoken of it," he said, and turned to look at the window. Birds sang their mournful winter songs in the courtyard beyond. "I have been too elated, and then too fearful, and then too worried – damn it all, I've been too _busy_."

"There is a war on," Legolas reminded him, and let his annoyance bleed out of him upon the next breath. He sat down beside his Dwarf – his beautiful, brave, stubborn, _proud_ Dwarf – and laced their hands tentatively.

Gimli looked down at their twined hands – one elven-slim and fair, one brown and dwarven-broad. "I am sorry, Legolas. I thought I was doing right."

"When we first walked the woods of Lothlórien together, you said that we were to be honest with each other. We could not dance around pain, for it exists whether we deny it or no. You knew I loved you, Gimli, and you knew I could not find the words. Elves do not speak to the point, as you are so fond of remarking. Yet you let me suffer."

Gimli winced. "I know. It was for love of you, though. I thought I could save you…"

"My choice," Legolas said fiercely, and his hand gripped Gimli's tighter. " _Mine,_ not yours. My life, and my heart, to do with as I will."

The Dwarf was still, and then he nodded. "I would not give up these stolen moments of happiness with you, not even if death were to claim me tomorrow. I understand now, ghivasha. I was blinded by fear and pride."

"You were being, as you would put it, a 'bloody fool'," Legolas snapped.

Gimli chuckled ruefully. "Well, we're renowned for a bit o' hard-headed foolishness, my family. I swear to you, Legolas. Never again will I take away your choice, no matter how much I think it best."

"Good." Legolas let the words sink into him, feeling their weight and truth. Then he squeezed their clasped hands again. "I will not ever kill another Oliphaunt."

Gimli's lip crooked wryly. "That's a relief to hear, lad."

Then he leaned forward and gently – oh, _so gently –_ wrapped those warm, massive arms around Legolas and leaned his forehead against his. "Amrâlimê," he said softly. "Glad you're safe. Glad you're here with me. Glad you shook sense into this stone-blind idiot."

  
  
Amrâlimê, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/121821857624/a-remembered-word-please-full-view-thank-you)  


Legolas froze. "I have heard that word before," he said.

"What?" Gimli blinked. This close, his eyes glowed bronze in the dim light. "Are you sure? I'm a bit on the reckless side, but most Dwarrow don't speak Khuzdul above ground…"

"Yes, I heard…" The memory came back, as bright and fierce as dragonfire. "I heard your cousin speak it. To Tauriel."

The dear, weathered face drew back (and how had Legolas once thought it rough and brutish? Kindness and humour and strength shone from it - like a star, yes, like the star he was named for). Gimli frowned a little. "Who - Kíli?"

"Yes."

His face paled, and Legolas was startled when Gimli suddenly tore away and covered his mouth with his hands. "Ach," he said, nearly too softly to hear. "My reckless young kinsman, did you love as I do?"

"I think he did," Legolas said, equally as quiet, and he swallowed. "Tauriel… she. I did not tell you the whole sad tale."

"I heard rumours," Gimli said, his tone distant. "Bofur in particular said some puzzling things… but I never paid them much heed. So much after the Quest was fraught with pain, and to dwell upon it seemed only to invite more."

Then he shook his head. "Tell me more of it on the morrow. There is sadness enough today. Théoden is cold and still, and the city both weeps and celebrates. We should clean up: I smell like an abattoir, and you're not much better."

Legolas slumped. "Do you mourn tonight?"

There was an old look in Gimli's dark eye as he turned back to Legolas. "Aye," he rumbled, and slipped a hand beneath the fall of Legolas' hair to cradle his jaw. The skin of his palm was hard, and warm. "Théoden, and Denethor, and many more besides. I have had news from my kinsman, also. Dáin Ironfoot is slain. My King now lies in Mahal's embrace – and that – no, I cannot put tongue to that grief yet. Alas for the Dwarves! We will not see his like again."

Legolas reached out, tentative, and then curled a finger in the rough locks of Gimli's beard. The Dwarf was still, allowing the touch. "You will cut it for him, won't you." It was not a question.

"Aye, when the time for memory comes." Gimli sighed once more, and then he looked up into Legolas' eyes. "But first, to bathe."

"To bathe," Legolas echoed, and he leaned forward again, stealing a quick kiss from Gimli's mouth. "I will not peek, if you do not wish it."

The smile that crossed Gimli's face was small and sad. "Ah, but when we have found our loves? T'is permitted for us to show off as much as we like. In fact, it's encouraged," he said, and the lilt of humour was genuine, if a trifle subdued. "No more secrecy, kurdulu. Come now, enough chatter. Elves will while hours away with their talking, even as the blood dries on their skin! The bath water will not grow colder at least, so there's that."

"You spoke as much as I," Legolas retorted, but he stole another kiss (dry lips, warm and alive, and he delighted in their unhesitating welcome) and stood. "The bathing-room is through there, I think."

"Lead on then, lad." Gimli stood as well. "I also might do some peeking of my own; though, Mahal only knows you've paraded yourself about enough, I mightn't bother!"

"I can't deprive you of the opportunity to stare at me, can I?" On that note, Legolas swept out. Gimli's huff of fond irritation followed him.

* * *

"The Black Shadow, they're calling it," whispered an old woman, one of the healers. Haban hovered behind her, squinting uncomprehendingly at the array of bottles and herbs all lined up on shelves and in little boxes. "It comes from those dreadful Nazgul. No matter what we use, no matter our arts, one by one they slip away. I've never seen anything like it!"

"No, nor I," whispered back another of the healers, fumbling at a stoppered jar. "And it's worst on Lord Faramir and the Lady Éowyn and that little fellow, the Perian. We're going to lose them too. Curse that evil thing!"

The old woman wrung her hands and looked back at the bed where Faramir lay, his face shining with sweat and his skin an awful shade. "Alas! if he should die. Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were once upon a time, they say! For it is said in old lore: _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer_. And so the rightful king could ever be known."

"Oh, don't cry, Ioreth," moaned the other, and she gripped the old woman's shoulders. "Don't cry! If you cry _I'll_ cry, and there's work to be done!"

"May your words be long remembered, Ioreth," said a new voice, and Haban whipped around to see Gandalf emerging from the shadows, his staff held in his hands and his face wreathed in smiles. "Maybe a king has indeed returned to Gondor; or have you not heard the strange tidings that have come to the City?"

She sniffed and drew herself up. "I have been too busy with this and that to heed all the crying and shouting," she answered. 'All I hope is that those murdering devils do not come to this House and trouble the sick."

"I do not bring trouble, but hope," Gandalf said, and Haban snorted loudly, before covering her mouth. Beside her, Narvi rolled her eyes.

"I can think of at least three people who would beg to differ," she murmured.

Aragorn then entered the room, followed by Imrahil and Éomer. He was wrapped in the green cloak of Lothlórien, with no other adornment than the green stone of Galadriel. He appeared rough and shabby compared to the cleanness of the House, but his eyes were clear and determined. "I have come because Gandalf begs me to," he said, low. "Show me."

Ioreth's companion drew back in distaste at the sight of the shabby, unkempt ranger, but at that moment a great shout came from a small figure . It was seated on a stool beside a little bed tucked in a quiet corner. "Strider! How splendid! Do you know, I guessed it was you in the black ships. But they were all shouting _corsairs_ and wouldn't listen to me. How did you do it?"

"Pippin!" Aragorn strode over to him and knelt to gather the Hobbit up in a hug. "You little rascal, well met indeed!"

"Strider?" Imrahil hissed to Gandalf. "Is this how we speak to our Kings?"

Gandalf shrugged, his eyes sparkling.

"You should have been there at our first greeting," Éomer said with black humour.

"Aragorn, can you help him?" Pippin begged, and he stepped aside to show the small figure lying on the bed. Merry lay there, dazed and wasted, shrivelled like an old winter apple.

"I will try, Pippin," Aragorn promised, and then he stood and turned to Ioreth. "Have you athelas?"

"I do not know, I am sure, lord," she answered, her eyes wide with sudden realisation, "at least not by that name. I will go and ask of the herb-master; he knows all the old names."

"It is also called kingsfoil," said Aragorn, "and maybe you know it by that name, for so the country-folk call it in these latter days."

"Oh _that_!" said Ioreth. "Well, if your lordship had named it at first I could have told you. No, we have none of it, I am sure. Why, I have never heard that it had any great virtue; and indeed I have often said to my sisters when we came upon it growing in the woods: "kingsfoil" I said, " 'tis a strange name, and I wonder why 'tis called so; for if I were a king, I would have plants more bright in my garden". Still it smells sweet when bruised, does it not? If sweet is the right word: wholesome, maybe, is nearer."

"Wholesome verily," said Aragorn. "And now, dame, if you love the Lord Faramir, run as quick as your tongue and get me kingsfoil, if there is a leaf in the City!"

Ioreth gulped, picked up her skirts, and ran.

Pippin hovered as Aragorn then made his way to where Faramir lay, scarcely breathing in his swoon. The Man laid his hand upon Faramir's brow, and then he sat back, frowning. "He is nearly spent," he said, turning to Gandalf. "But this comes not from the wound. See! that is healing. Had he been smitten by some dart of the Nazgûl, as you thought, he would have died that night. This hurt was given by some Southron arrow, I would guess. Who drew it forth? Was it kept?"

"I drew it forth," said Imrahil, "and staunched the wound. But I did not keep the arrow, for we had much to do. It appeared a normal arrow such as Southrons use. How then do you read the matter?"

"Weariness, grief for his father's mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath," said Aragorn. "He is a man of staunch will, for already he had come close under the Shadow before ever he rode to battle on the out-walls. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to hold his outpost. Would that I could have been here sooner!"

Pippin looked from Aragorn, back to Merry and then to Faramir, and he bit down hard upon his lip. Gandalf moved closer and laid a hand upon Pippin's little shoulder, giving wordless comfort.

At that moment the herb-master entered: a prim-looking old fellow with a dandelion-clock of hair and small, fussy spectacles. Ioreth hovered behind him anxiously. He was consulting a book, his sharp nose nearly pressed into the pages. "Your lordship asked for kingsfoil, as the rustics name it," he said, squinting at the pages; "or athelas in the noble tongue, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean..."

And on and on he droned, speaking of the noble history of the herb, of Numenor and snatches of old verse, and more besides. Aragorn's face grew hard, and his eyes bored into the fellow as though willing him to get to the point. Narvi began to look rather pinched. Pippin made an inarticulate sound of frustration.

"Oh for Mahal's sake," Haban growled. Then she turned to give Gandalf a loaded glare. "Shut him up, _please."_

"…garbled in the memory of old wives," the self-important little fellow continued. "Its meaning I leave to your judgement, if indeed it has any. But old folk still use an infusion of the herb for headaches."

"Then in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!" cried Gandalf.

"Worse than Odovacar Bolger in his cups," Pippin grumbled, and looked pleadingly up at Aragorn. "Isn't there anything?"

"I am not Lord Elrond, I fear," Aragorn said heavily, but he knelt down by Faramir nonetheless and called his name.

To Haban it seemed that there was some unseen struggle going on. For Aragorn's face grew grey with weariness; and over and over he called the name of Faramir. With each call his voice grew fainter and fainter, as though he wandered further away from them, following Faramir into the shadowy place where he was lost.

At last the young lad Bergil came running in, with a small bundled cloth in his hands. "It is kingsfoil, sir, but not fresh. The lady said it was cut two weeks ago at the least. Please, please say it will serve!" Then looking at Faramir he burst into tears.

But Aragorn smiled. "It will serve," he said.

Bergil, Imrahil, Pippin, Éomer, Haban, Gandalf, Narvi and Ioreth all slumped in relief, nearly in unison. "He cannot have them all, that dark monster," Haban heard Narvi say softly, and she stepped closer to her friend and pressed their shoulders together. "He can't."

All watched breathlessly and in silence as Aragorn took two leaves and breathed upon them, before crushing them in his hands. A bright freshness filled the room, as though the air itself woke up and sparkled for joy.

A soundless sigh escaped all those watching.

"Well now! Who would have believed it?" whispered Ioreth to her fellow healer. "The weed is better than I thought. It reminds me of the roses of Imloth Melui when I was a lass, and no king could ask for better."

"Shh!" hissed her friend, gripping her arm.

"Don't shush me, Polina," Ioreth snapped back, but she fell silent as Aragorn then picked up a bowl of steaming water. "Oh!" she said, gripping her friend's arm.

Aragorn cast the leaves into the bowl and swirled it, once, twice. A sweet warm scent rose from it, one that tugged at the memory. Aragorn did not rush unduly but he moved with swift and economic movements, dipping a cloth into it and wringing it out. Laying the cloth upon Faramir's brow he called once more, "Faramir, come back!"

Slowly, Faramir stirred, struggling against the heavy weight of despair and darkness that weighed him down. Finally he opened his eyes, and they were clear and aware. He looked uncomprehendingly at Aragorn for a long moment, and then the light of realisation filled his face with awe.

"My lord, you called me," he croaked. "What does the king command?"

Ioreth choked around a sob. "Oh my word!"

" _Shhh!"_ Polina said, a little more emphatically.

Aragorn gently smiled at him. "Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return. I will have need of you."

"I will, lord," breathed Faramir, sinking back into his pillows. "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"

"Farewell then for a while!" said Aragorn. "I must go to others who need me."

Bergil threw himself at the foot of the bed, still weeping. "You're all right, you're going to be all right!" he blubbed, and Pippin patted the lad's head.

"King!" exclaimed Ioreth, utterly thunderstruck. "Did you hear that? What did I say? The hands of a healer, I said."

"SHHH!" Polina said loudly- drawing the attention of all present. She reddened. "Uh. Perhaps I can show the Lord Elfstone the others who need urgent help."

Ioreth only gawped at Aragorn as her friend led him away.

Imrahil and Bergil remained with Faramir, and the healer Polina brought Aragorn, Gandalf and Éomer to where Éowyn lay. She was scarcely breathing, and seemed like one dead.

Éomer's mouth trembled, and he slowly sat at his sister's side. His eyes never left her face.

"Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow," Aragorn said slowly. "The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill, and it will mend in time. The evil comes from her sword arm. I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown."

"Can you heal her," Éomer said, in a voice that was so tightly restrained it was nearly a growl.

Aragorn gave the new King of Rohan a level look. "If she wills it, yes. But Éowyn's malady began long before she set steel to the Witchking, did it not?"

Éomer's eyes closed tightly, and he nodded. Tears tracked down his face despite all his efforts, yet the hand he laid upon Éowyn's hair was tender.

"She looks like a lily made of crystal, lying there," said Haban, and she fisted a hand and pressed it against her mouth.

"Crystal shatters," said Narvi darkly.

Aragorn then bruised two more leaves of the kingsfoil and swirled them in the water, before he reached out and laid his wet hands upon her face, calling softly, "Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!"

"She doesn't move," Narvi said, and she bent her head.

"Wait, she breathes easier," said Haban, willing it to be true.

Aragorn called again, and then he bathed Éowyn's pallid brow and her right arm that lay cold and black on the coverlet. "Éowyn, Éowyn! White Lady of Rohan, wake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!"

"Nothing!" Narvi cried, and carded a hand roughly through her braids.

"She will not hear me." Aragorn stood, his face like stone. Then his gaze came to rest on Éomer's shaking shoulders. "She will hear those she truly loves."

He lifted her arm gently, and laid her hand in Éomer's. "Call her!" he said harshly, and stepped away. Éomer looked startled, and then he bent to his sister, chafing her hand in his.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" he wept. "Éowyn, do not leave! Do not go, best and bravest of sisters. Do not follow Théoden-King! Will you leave me alone entirely? Éowyn, come back!"

A weak voice then said, as though drugged, "Éomer?"

His breath stopped, his eyes huge.

Éowyn's eyelashes were flickering. "Éomer? What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?"

"Not long, my sister," said Éomer, his whole heart in his face. "But think no more on it!"

"Merry," she said then, slurring, and he nodded. "Merry - Éomer, you shall make him a knight of the Riddermark, for he is valiant… where…?"

"He lies nearby in this House," said Gandalf. "Éomer shall stay here for a while. But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again."

She let out a long breath full of pain, and sank back into her blankets. "Until I hold a sword again, I cannot be whole."

Éomer pressed her hand to his face. "You are whole just as you are," he said, and he dropped a kiss into her palm.

Aragorn's shoulders relaxed slightly as he watched them. Then he nodded to Pippin. "All right, Pippin. Take me to him."

Nearly skipping with haste, Pippin led the way to that quiet corner where lay that little bed with the little figure upon it. "Poor old Merry!" Pippin sobbed, and he ran to the bedside. "He seems worse just in that short time, and his face is ashen!"

Aragorn knelt quickly by the little bed and took Merry's dark-veined hand. Then he smiled. "Do not be afraid. I came in time. He has taken a hurt like the Lady Éowyn, daring to smite that deadly thing. But he is a Hobbit, he is Merry Brandybuck, and he is well-named. Merry and strong is he!"

Then he laid a hand on Merry's head and stroked the brown curls, and called him by name. The scent of athelas stole through the room, like sunlight opening a path between the clouds or the bright gleam of opal underground. Haban breathed in. Surely three miracles were impossible. And yet –

Suddenly Merry awoke, his eyes snapping open. And he said, "I am hungry. What is the time?"

Gandalf chuckled.

"Hobbits!" Haban snapped, worn down to wire through tension and worry. "HOBBITS!"

"It's past supper-time now," said Pippin, "though I daresay I could bring you something, if they will let me."

"Good!" said Merry, and yawned. "Then I would like supper first, and after that a pipe." At that his face clouded. "No, not a pipe. I don't think I'll smoke again."

"Why not?" said Pippin.

"Well," answered Merry slowly. "He is dead. It has brought it all back to me. I - I never had the chance to speak of herb-lore with him. I shan't ever be able to smoke again without thinking of him, and that day, Pippin, when he rode up to Isengard and was so polite."

"Smoke then, and think of him!" said Aragorn. "For he was a gentle heart and a great king and kept his oaths; and he rose out of the shadows to a last fair morning."

Merry sighed out, and rubbed at his eyes. The dreadful creeping tracery was already beginning to dissipate from his sword arm. "Well then," he said, "if Strider will provide what is needed, I will smoke and think. I had some of Saruman's best in my pack, but what became of it in the battle, I am sure I don't know."

Aragorn's eyebrow jumped high. "Merry," he said, and his mouth was twitching, as though he were barely holding in a laugh, "if you think that I have passed through the mountains and the realm of Gondor with fire and sword to bring herbs to a careless soldier who throws away his gear, you are mistaken."

"Oh, the cheeky thing," Haban gasped. Beside her, Narvi was in silent fits of laughter.

"And now I must rest," Aragorn continued, and his shoulders rounded as he leaned his elbows on Merry's little bed. "For I have not slept since I rode from Dunharrow, and I have not eaten since before dawn."

Merry seized his hand and kissed it. "I am frightfully sorry," he said, all contrition. "Go at once! Ever since that night at Bree we have been a nuisance to you. But it is the way of my people to use light words at such times and say less than they mean. We fear to say too much."

Aragorn smiled. "I know, Merry. For how many years have we guarded the Shire? All the Dúnedain know it."

"Go on, get!" Pippin flipped his hands at him. "Sleep!"

Aragorn laughed finally, and let the Hobbits shoo him from the Houses. Gandalf winked at them and followed after. Finally the two Hobbits were alone.

Pippin settled back on his little stool beside the bed, and grinned at his cousin. "My dear ass, your pack is lying by your bed, and you had it on your back when I met you. He saw it all the time, of course. And anyway I have some stuff of my own. Come on now! Longbottom Leaf it is. Fill up while I run and see about some food. And then let's be easy for a bit. Dear me! We Tooks and Brandybucks, we can't live long on the heights."

"No," said Merry, and there was a distant, odd note in his voice as he plucked at his coverlet. Pippin busied himself rummaging through Merry's pack, even as he continued to talk in an almost dreamy fashion. "I can't. Not yet, at any rate. But at least, Pippin, we can now see them, and honour them. It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad that I know about them, a little."

Narvi's eyes narrowed as she looked at the Hobbit, and she then grunted.

"What?" Haban asked.

"Frodo is not the only Hobbit changing, it appears."

Then Merry shook his head and blinked. He sounded far more like himself when he said, "But I don't know why I am talking like this. Where is that leaf? And get my pipe out of my pack, if it isn't broken."

* * *

Lóni's lovely face was worried. Frár gripped his hand tightly, running his thumb over the knuckles. "Are you all right, love?" he murmured.

Lóni sent him a quick, wry smile. "Just not all that pleased about being in a forest again."

"Well, that's understandable enough." Particularly after what they had seen. "At least this one isn't Fangorn. No Ents here."

"No." Lóni wrinkled his nose. "Just more bloody _Elves."_

The small group of Elves were heavily armed and hard-faced. Unlike most of the Elves Frár had seen, these did not sing, nor laugh. They gave off an air of danger as they loped through the silence of the trees, congregating around an old, gnarled oak. All of them bore scratches from the whipping branches, and many were wounded. All were panting hard, and there was blood on their blades.

They did not speak, but bound their cuts in silence and with swift movements that spoke of long practice. Finally the little band was joined by one last Elf. All eyes immediately swung to him as he strode in, cleaning off his sword with angry, jerky motions.

"Who's _that,"_ Lóni said, his dusky brown face screwed up speculatively. "Seems sort of familiar…"

"Seems sort of _fierce,_ too," Frár murmured.

Lóni squeezed his hand. "We're dead, darling one. He can't get us."

"I'm not concerned about that," Frár retorted dryly. "Being dead has its moments."

Lóni sent him a mischievous look. "As many as I can contrive."

"Stop it." Minx.

"Regroup," the new Elf said shortly to the one beside him. "We cannot repulse them. Not with our current numbers. We must fall back and attack again, in strength."

"But… highness, the trees…!" the Elf protested, and he cut them off with a look.

"Do you think I do not hear their cries?"

"They won't have the numbers to take the Greenwood," the other predicted.

"The gloom of the canopy lends them strength," said the fierce Elf, and he held his sword up before his eyes. It shone with deadly light, before he slid it into the scabbard at his side. He was a shorter Elf, as these things went. Frár hadn't ever seen one so short before. His hair was silver, nearly white, and he had a stern, unrelenting stare that seemed to pierce the very soul. He wore full armour, glittering like folded leaves of steel, and his voice was soft and grim. "They need not wait for the fall of night to make their attacks. Dol Guldur is emptying. The southern forest will be lost to darkness once more."

Many of the party gasped, and some cried out in horror.

"I need a drink," said the other in a weak voice. "Highness. Are you sure?"

The fierce Elf then said a few words in the elven-tongue, and a young, proud buck came sniffing to his hand. He stroked its nose. "We return to the palace," he said, and looked up. "My father must be warned."

"We should send to Lothlórien," said the other Elf, who seemed to be second in command. The fierce Elf scowled.

"Galion. Did you not see the tower emptying as I did? The bulk of the orc-host marches _west,_ not north. The Golden Wood will not help us. They will be under siege themselves, before long. Would that we had not sent so many of our archers to that thrice-cursed pile of Dwarf-rock! Now we need them more than ever."

"Oh for _goodness'_ sake! If it weren't for that pile of Dwarf-rock, as you call it," grumbled a querulous voice, "you'd have a lot more on your plate than these Dol Guldur orcs!"

"Who…" The fierce Elf whirled, and his sword flew from his scabbard like a leaping fish. He held it before him. "Show yourself, skulker in the shadows!"

"Skulker! I like that!" the voice exclaimed. "Now, where was I… oh yes, I had something to say to somebody. Yes, important. Important…"

"That… is that the brown Wizard?" said Lóni in astonishment.

"I suppose it must be," said Frár, and he scratched at his head. "Regular marketplace, this forest. Never know who you're likely to meet."

"Oh, yes!" Radagast the Brown clapped his hands, and beamed at the small party of grim Elves. "I needed to talk to Thranduil. Wanted to warn him about the Orcs – but it appears you've spotted them for yourselves, jolly good. There was something else as well…"

And then the Wizard drifted off, his body stilling like a Man turning to stone. His eyes unfocused.

"Your highness, trespassing is against your father's law," whispered Galion, but the fierce Elf shook his head and lowered his sword.

"Aiwendil," he said. "Return to the present. You have a message?"

Radagast blinked. Then he said, "oh dear, oh dear, oh dear – I appear to have forgotten it. It'll come back to me. Does anyone have any hazelnuts? Reginald here loves hazelnuts."

A chittering sound came from within the filthy mismatched brown robes, and then a sleek little red head poked out from a pocket. "Is that a squirrel?" said Lóni, squinting.

"Oh, by Durin's beard," Frár said, rolling his eyes. "Does he ever get to the point?"

To his absolute astonishment, Radagast tutted crossly. "And all dead people present can keep their opinions to themselves, thank you _very_ much."

Frár's breath caught in his throat, and he ended up coughing.

"Wizards," Lóni breathed, and his dark face had paled somewhat. "Unpredictable. He may seem flighty, but he's of the same kind as Gandalf after all."

Radagast sniffed.

The Elves apparently had no idea what to make of this exchange, but were polite enough not to draw attention to it. "I am Prince Laindawar," said the short, stern Elf with a bow. "Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín. I would be pleased to have you journey with us back to my father's halls. Perhaps your news will return to you by the time we arrive."

"Legolas' brother?" Frár said, and peered closer at him. Yes, there was a slight resemblance – though this Elf seemed far harder and more severe than Legolas, who loved singing and laughed easily. Something in the shape of their faces.

"Hmm? Oh yes, yes. Perhaps. No hazelnuts, then?" Radagast looked hopefully at the band of warriors, who all gazed steadily back at him with stony faces. "I think that's a no on the hazelnuts, Reggie."

"How came you to this place?" Laindawar said, and glanced back through the enveloping trees. "We are some distance from your home."

Radagast scowled, and for the first time, the Wizard looked somewhat dangerous. "Spiders," he said, and Laindawar hissed softly in response. "They're back. I fled before they could overwhelm me, though I left a nasty surprise or two for them. They won't meddle with my things, I promise you that."

"I am sorry," the Prince said, inclining his head. "I offer you refuge."

"Lovely, thank you, thank you, so kind," Radagast said, distractedly patting at his pockets. "Oh yes, here – it's only a bit of bread, I am so sorry about that, Reggie. Oh yes! Now I remember!"

The Prince's face did not move.

Radagast turned slightly, facing the south. His eyes glittered strangely. "Shadows moving," he murmured, and there was a deep knowing power in his voice – so utterly at odds with the querulous scatterbrain he sometimes appeared to be. "An unseen evil, shifting beyond sight. He reaches out and moves his pieces. Dol Guldur, Dol Guldur… it was thrown down, it was abandoned. But now it seethes and writhes again, the spiders cloak it in their webs of shadow… dark hosts pour forth, armed with flame and steel, to lay waste to the last remaining strongholds of the Elves. For Elves he hates, always… always… with their bright eyes and their long memories and their endless defiance… Elves he hates… and now his arm is grown long. It is grown very long indeed. He reaches… _out._ "

"What in Mahal's name?" said Lóni, drawing back. Frár shivered.

"I don't know," he said. "Hush!"

Radagast then shook himself, like a dog shaking out its coat. "I caught myself an Orc," he said, and the corner of his mouth crooked. "Pleasant fellow. I learned much from him."

"Tell me," Laindawar said quickly.

Radagast gripped his staff and peered out from under his hat. "Most of these Orcs go to Lothlórien, which even as we speak, is repelling its second attack," he said. "The power of the Elven-rings is too great to be allowed to stand before the might of Mordor, even in secret. A small force is to remain here, and stop the Elves of the Greenwood from going to their aid."

"Rhaich," breathed Laindawar. "I see from your face there is more. Will you go on?"

"You won't like it," Radagast warned them gloomily, and he sighed. "They are meant to join up with another, greater army. It will sweep through the Greenwood and reduce it to kindling – tree, branch and leaf."

Several of the Elves sucked in breaths of pure horror. "Tiro ven Elbereth," faltered Galion, eyes wide. "Now I _really_ need a drink."

Radagast seemed oblivious to the stir he had caused, and he pulled off his hat. Pursing his lips he twittered to the trees, his whistle indistinguishable from birdsong. A little wren came swooping to alight on his hair, which as always, was a matted nest.

"What army?" Laindawar demanded. "From which direction do they come? We must fortify our borders against them!"

"Oh, that's the good part!" Radagast gave them all a sunny smile. "They currently have a… well, a previous engagement? I suppose you could call it. They're sitting camped around that 'lump of Dwarf-rock', as you so kindly put it. Easterlings of Rhûn, Orcs from Gundabad, trolls and wargs and worse – they're all stuck fast in the North, still staring at the Dwarves' front-door. That army is meant to be steaming through the Northern Greenwood to meet up with these Dol Guldur forces, but they're pinned to the spot as neatly as though someone had glued them in place. They cannot leave so strong a fortress as the Mountain behind their lines – and the birds tell me that Erebor still stands, though Dale is fallen. So you see, it is only because Erebor still stands that the Greenwood still stands."

Laindawar's eyebrows knitted, and he simply _looked_ at the Wizard. Then he said, "I repent of my hasty words."

"Does _nobody_ here have any hazelnuts?" Radagast said plaintively. Then he sighed. "Bad luck, Reginald."

"We make for my father's halls," Laindawar said then, and bowed again. Then he sprang, lithe as a squirrel himself, onto the young buck's back and grasped at his reins. "Hannon le. I thank you for this news, and for its timeliness. You are welcome to join us, if you are able to keep up. We are in haste. We make no camp." Then he nodded to his small band of Elves, and wheeled the buck around and urged it into a fleet-footed canter. "To the north! Aphado nin!"

"Excuse me – able to keep up?! _Able to keep up?!_ " Radagast huffed, and he crammed his hat back onto his head. "Me! The cheek! Just you wait til I find where those rabbits have got to with my sled!"

Frár could only shake his head again as Radagast hitched up his robes and scurried after the Elves. "Wizards," he sighed.

"I thought I told you to keep your opinions to yourself!" the cross reply came floating back through the trees.

  
  
Radagast, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/121961230230/sassy-radaghast-in-sans%C3%BBkh-is-all-i-need)  


Frár gulped. "Right."

* * *

Bilbo yawned, and his eyes fluttered open. "Oh."

Thorin looked up, and he appeared startled. "Hello, Idùzhib – I was not expecting to see you again so soon."

"Well, at least you're dressed - and not dead on your feet this time," Bilbo said, and yawned again. "Is this still the Halls?"

"Aye." Thorin straightened. "My workroom. You have been here before."

"You're working on something?" Bilbo tried not to appear too curious, and then gave up. Curiosity had been what got him into this mess, after all. "What is it?"

"A name-day present. For my mother."

Some of Bilbo's surprise must have shown, for Thorin snorted loudly and turned back to his work. "Yes, contrary to popular rumour, I have a mother," he said sardonically, and he brought down the small, round-ended hammer on the finely-curved bit of metal he was shaping. To Bilbo's ears, the ring of the hammer sounded a little petulant.

"Well, obviously you do, I mean," Bilbo pinched his nose. "You have a brother and a sister. So it follows that you have parents as well."

Thorin grunted, and continued to work.

Bilbo watched in silence for a little while, and then he asked, "is she like you?"

Thorin shrugged one shoulder, and then he smiled. A sad smile, but it was there nevertheless. "No. And yes. We do not look alike, if that is your question. She is small, as Dwarves go. Only a handspan taller than you, I should say. I was taller than her by the time I was twenty, as I have my father's height. She has lucky hair; that is, golden hair, like Fíli. I have my eyes from her."

Automatically, Bilbo's own eyes flicked up to Thorin's, and he then glanced aside. It shouldn't be permissible for such terribly blue eyes to exist. "I see," he said instead, as vaguely as he could manage.

Thorin laid down his hammer, and his shoulders slowly relaxed. "She taught me the harp when I was small," he said, and then he picked up a file and began to work away at the … whatever it was. "She adores music and singing. She is dedicated to a fault, and often overworks herself: a trait she bemoans in others but will not check in herself. She does not suffer nonsense." Thorin glanced up at Bilbo. "Her sky-name is Frís."

"Frís," Bilbo echoed. Then he shifted. "What am I sitting on?"

Thorin tipped his head. His hair had been caught in a tail at the nape of his neck, and it seemed rather too intimate to be staring at his collarbone this way. "Looks like a pair of callipers. My apologies."

"Not your fault." Bilbo scooted along a little, and looked around. It seemed that he had appeared upon Thorin's bench – was this becoming a habit? – and was dressed in his old travelling clothes this time. The old blue coat he had thrown away eventually, as it had been more dirt than thread by the end. Goodness knows what washing it would have achieved. The belt he had kept, along with his little scabbard – but they had gone to Frodo. Yet here they were, around his hips.

Everything about this was utterly, preposterously _confounding._

The buckle was familiar under his fingers, at least, and he fidgeted with it as Thorin continued to work. It seemed that the Dwarf had no qualms about his being there. _I welcome you,_ he remembered that deep voice saying, and shivered.

Thorin glanced up again. "Are you cold?"

Bilbo frowned. "I… no? Do you know, I don't rightly know."

He didn't. He wasn't warm, he wasn't cold, he… he wasn't anything.

But Thorin seemed to understand, and he nodded, before bending to his filing once more. Bilbo fidgeted with his belt-buckle a little more, and then hopped down from the bench. "How is. Um."

Thorin stopped yet _again_ , and laid down his file. Then he sat down and put his hands together. "Did you want to talk, Master Baggins?"

"How is Bombur doing?" Bilbo blurted.

Thorin sighed. "He is… adjusting. It is a hard change. But he is adjusting. He has friends and family here. Óin and Ori spend time with him, and his family is never far."

"And Dáin?"

Thorin's face flickered with sudden sorrow. "He grieves, but he will heal. And in the midst of loss, he rejoices too. He is to be a grandfather."

"Oh, felicitations!" Bilbo said, clapping his hands joyfully. Then he froze. "Oh… he won't ever hold the baby, will he…"

Thorin was silent.

"Oh dear," Bilbo faltered. Then he tapped at his belt-buckle a little. "How come you're not… watching?"

"I am leaving you alone, as you wished," Thorin said, and he inclined his head. So poised, so regal, when he wanted to be. The great bothersome lump. "I have spent many days in the waters, watching. I am tired, and I have learned the folly of pushing myself beyond my limits. A great battle has been fought and won at Minas Tirith, and I have seen enough for now. Enough bloodshed, enough sorrow, enough death."

That explained his gloomy mood, then. "Have you word on Frodo?"

"He is in disguise, creeping through the plains of Gorgoroth," said Thorin. "Sam is with him still. He is weary beyond all measure and meaning of the word, but he lives."

Worry and relief tugged at Bilbo's heart. "Good. That's… that's good."

"Aye."

Bilbo had to sit back down quite quickly, and then he swallowed hard. "It's that damnable thing, isn't it," he said. It was not a question. "That's what is making him so tired. Not the journey."

Thorin stood and crossed to him. He hesitated a moment before sitting beside Bilbo: gingerly, as though Bilbo might explode if he moved too quickly. "The Ring, yes. The journey has not been a kind one, and it brings its own weariness. But the burden grows heavier with every step he takes. I am sorry, Master Baggins. I know you love him like a son."

Bilbo pressed his lips together hard. "Yes, I. But. It was ever light, when I carried it. It was light, but it was a lightness that threatened to grow heavier, all the time. The way a bucket can be light until you fill it with soil."

"Then it is almost full." Thorin said heavily.

"Don't use my metaphors against me," Bilbo snapped in a tight voice, and he sniffled.

Unexpectedly, Thorin chuckled. "I had forgotten the way you do that. I have not seen that in so long."

  
  
Bilbo and Thorin, "Don't use my metaphors against me!", by [Lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/121824875291/dont-use-my-metaphors-against-me-bilbo-snapped)  


"Do what?"

"Your nose. It twitches when you sniff." Thorin smiled at him. "I find it absurd, and absurdly charming."

"This isn't another _bunny_ thing, is it?" Bilbo rubbed at his eyes and gave Thorin a serve of his best glare. "I warn you, I am not in the mood."

"Never, Master Baggins."

"Good." Bilbo sniffed again, if only to see the way Thorin's eyes danced at the sight. It made something high in his stomach flip-flop about, wriggling like an excitable little fish. "And gracious, call me Bilbo _,_ would you? You talk as though we hardly know one another."

"I did not wish to presume."

"You're complimenting me on my _sniffing,_ I hardly think calling me by my name will raise any eyebrows at this late stage."

"Very well, Bilbo."

Oh drat, why had he done that? Now he would have to listen to that lovely voice shaping around his name, instead of the rather more impersonal 'Master Baggins.' He would have to watch that mouth form the 'l' and those thin lips rounding themselves around the 'o'. Drat, botheration and curses! "Better," was all he said. The little fish in his belly seemed to have multiplied.

Thorin's eyebrows rose slightly. "Bilbo," he said again – the fish wriggled – "you appear to be biting at the inside of your cheek."

"Am I?" Bilbo's voice sounded high and cross to his own ears, and he tugged at one of his lobes, annoyed. "I do that now and then. Pay it no mind. Tell me what you're making?"

Thorin looked at him for a moment longer, before he stood and crossed to the bench. He lifted the… whatever it was, and held it out for Bilbo to see. "A reading-lamp," he said. "Steel. It will be polished to a high sheen when I am done. Mother reads without enough light at times. And in these days, she has endless reports to sort rather than the music she prefers. I would rather she didn't strain her eyes."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Bilbo said, and peered at it. He could see the shape of it taking form he supposed, if he squinted. "It looks sort of like a long-stemmed flower, with opening petals."

To his astonishment, Thorin swallowed and his hands clenched a little around the lamp. "Uh."

"It _is,_ isn't it?" Bilbo scooted closer, his interest in the lamp suddenly redoubling. "Oh, how splendid! I didn't think Dwarves went in for flower designs, but that's delightful."

"Some… do. One or two. One at least," said Thorin, rather stiffly. There was a deepening flush on his neck that was rapidly spreading. "It is not ahh, widespread. Amongst Dwarves. That is."

"It looks a little like a carnation," marvelled Bilbo.

"Camellia," Thorin corrected shortly.

"Oh yes, of course," Bilbo nodded with enthusiasm, still looking at the lovely bit of work. How charming! He hadn't known that Thorin could do such delicate and clever things – he'd always seemed like a sharp-things-only sort of fellow - but this pretty thing wouldn't have looked out of place… in Bag End…

His eyes snapped up to Thorin's bright red face.

"Camellia," he said in a voice that felt sort of strangled.

  
  
Camellia, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/121817195695/camellia-chapter-38-of-sans%C3%BBkh-camellia-he)  


Thorin nodded, blank-faced. Though if anything he blushed even harder.

"And do you know what-"

"Unpretending excellence," Thorin said, awkward and halting. "Perfected loveliness."

The fish in Bilbo's belly danced happily.

"My word," Bilbo faltered. "You did do your homework, didn't you."

Thorin's gaze dropped to the lamp. "I…"

"No, no, don't let's start all that again," Bilbo said quickly. He cleared his throat.

Thorin was silent. His blush did a lot of speaking, though.

  
  
  
  
Thorin and Bilbo, by [ursubs](http://ursubs.tumblr.com/post/121997963818/the-new-chapter-of-sans%C3%BBkh-is-pretty-great)  


There was no point in asking why. _Because I love you, and I think you – forgive me – I think you cared for me._ The words had been said, and Bilbo couldn't ignore that, could he? And here was proof, actual proof of that devotion; proof that a Dwarven King loved a Hobbit, eighty long years after his own death.

Thorin knew the flower-language of the Shire. He knew the flower-language of Hobbits, and had pressed it into the metal of the Dwarves, and goodness gracious, how was this even a thing that had happened?

_I will love you unending and never care for another._

Bilbo pressed his hands against his face, and willed his heart to stop pounding, if only for a moment, so he could get a chance to _breathe._

"I have never," Thorin began, and then he looked down at the thing in his hands, turning it over and over, smoothing down the petals with his thick, blunt-tipped fingers.

"Go on," murmured Bilbo.

Thorin sighed soundlessly. "My sister used to taunt me, saying that it was unheard-of for a prince and a Dwarf to take so little interest in decoration. She is a jeweller, you see. I have never been one for ornamentation or clever embellishment: a well-balanced sword is a greater achievement than a sumptuous one, and is finer to my eyes. But." He stopped again.

Bilbo waited for another unbearable moment, and the fish leapt about, tumbling merrily in the hollow beneath his ribs.

"What need have you of a sword? You have one. Had," Thorin corrected himself.

"Letter-opener," Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin's lips curved upwards momentarily, and he let out a quiet, "ha. Yes. Your Sting. And so I wondered: what do Hobbits find beautiful? Or useful? Not the crafting of weapons of war, nor the hard harsh angles and diamonds of Dwarvish art."

 _Dwarves with grave faces and blue eyes, who blush tomato-red and stumble over their words: those we find tremendously beautiful,_ a sly little voice in Bilbo's mind chirped. _And we're quite sure we could find a use for one._

Bilbo bit his lip, and blamed the silly wriggling fish for that thought. "And?"

"I made many things, over the years." Thorin turned the lamp over and over in his hands. "I learned about gentle, quiet ways of earth. I learned about the ways Hobbits tend their gardens and how they use them to speak. I turned that knowledge into pots and pans, stoves and pens. I have done it for decades now." He shook his head, and smiled slightly. "I did not even realise that it had found its way into my gift for Amad. I wonder what Dís would say now?"

"I met her once," Bilbo said. "She looks like you."

"She does. Frerin was the odd one out. He inherited my mother's lucky hair." His mouth settled into unhappy lines. "It did not prove lucky for him, in the end."

"How did he, uh…"

"In battle, like so many of us do." Thorin shrugged one shoulder. "I know Balin told you of it; I overheard you speaking."

"I read a little about it," said Bilbo. "Later – much, much later. I didn't realise you were so young."

"Fifty-three." Thorin's eyes grew distant. "A long time ago, now."

Bilbo frowned. Then he clapped his hands onto his knees with a _smack!_ and said, "right, that's it then, I've decided."

Thorin appeared puzzled. "Decided?"

"What you can do," Bilbo said, waggling a finger at him. "You said it before. 'I wait upon your pleasure, Master Baggins' etcetera, etcetera. I said I'd let you know. Well, I've decided, and I'm letting you know."

The blue eyes blinked, and then Thorin said, rather apprehensively, "yes?"

"You know absolutely _everything_ there is to know about me." Bilbo reached out and his fingers hovered over the burnished petals of the lamp. "Absolutely positively _everything_ – and don't think I don't find that a little disturbing still, by the way. You probably know the names of every single one of my dratted cousins. And there are a _lot._ "

Thorin seemed embarrassed. "Ahhh, most of them? Though the Tooks defeat me, if I am honest. I am in awe of their productivity."

Bilbo snorted, and fixed him with a glare. "Well, I want you to return the favour. Tell me about yourself. I want to know it all. The silly things, the embarrassing things, the dreadful things – don't leave out a thing, not a single thing."

Thorin's mouth fell open slightly.

Bilbo set his jaw. "I mean it. It's absolutely insupportable to know that I haven't a sole secret of my own before you, when I know next to nothing in return. Is there a language of… oh, rocks? Like we have our flowers? How much older are you than your brother and sister? Did you ever have a nickname? What's your favourite meal? And so on."

Thorin's mouth snapped shut.

"I am honoured to do this for you, Bilbo," he said finally. His shoulders straightened and he lifted his chin as though meeting a challenge. "There is a language for jewels, aye. Meanings ascribed to each, much like your flowers. I am five years older than Frerin, and fourteen years older than Dís. My mother has been known to call me 'steely stormcloud' – kindly do not laugh at me. I am fond of lamb and of my grandmother's soup – it is an old Broadbeam recipe, jealously guarded over the generations…"

"And what's a Broadbeam?" Bilbo threw up his hands. "Oh, this is just maddening!"

"One of the seven houses of the Dwarves." Thorin said patiently. "I am heir to the Longbeards, the clan descended from Durin, but my grandmother is a Broadbeam noblewoman."

"Right." Bilbo scratched at his nose. "Um. Tell me a nice thing now. A nice memory."

Thorin's eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, and then he smiled broadly. "Fíli used to burrow beneath my desk, in Ered Luin, and fall asleep there. He was very small. I was forever having to watch where I put my feet."

Bilbo nodded in approval. "Good. Now a silly one."

Thorin looked at the ceiling, obviously wracking his brains. Then he let out a low chuckle. "Dwalin and I once competed against each other in a sort of… crouching-dance, with slow controlled movements and dragging kicks. Loser bought the beer. We lasted several hours, but neither of us would concede defeat. I could barely straighten my knees at all the next morning, so thoroughly seized were my muscles. Both of us were groaning over our legs for days, and Dwalin walked like a greybeard of three hundred years. I doubt I was any better. Dís and Víli laughed until they were hoarse."

Bilbo felt his ears heat. Oh, he could picture it, too. _Those thighs must be tremendously strong,_ whispered the sly chirpy little voice in his mind. He hastily shoved the thought aside and said, "Tell me about your favourite place."

Thorin's smile fell. "It used to be Erebor," he said flatly.

"Don't give me that," Bilbo snapped. "Tell me about your favourite place _in_ Erebor. It's a fairly large mountain, as I recall."

"My father's forge," said Thorin immediately, and he had obviously surprised himself with that answer. He blinked several times, and then he let out a wondering sigh. "I had nearly forgotten that. I would watch him work on occasion, and it was quiet but for the sound of his tools. Sometimes he would play his whistle for us. It was… calm. Peaceful."

"There, now." Satisfied, Bilbo worried at his lip, and searched his mind for more questions. It had gone curiously blank. "I'm not done! I'm just thinking. Don't go thinking that I've finished poking about in your business just yet."

Thorin's brows knitted a little. "It bothers you that much, doesn't it?"

"Wouldn't it bother you?" Bilbo said baldly, and he turned away.

There was a long silence, and then:

"Dohyarzirikhab."

Bilbo shook his head irritably. "What? I can't understand what that means, you know I don't sp-"

"We have a… a secret name." Thorin's voice was very, very quiet. Nearly soundless, in fact. "Given to us by our Maker. It is a promise of his love, a pledge of his personal, individual care. It is written into us at our making, forged into our bones. We are born knowing our names. They are… sacred."

Bilbo's heart utterly _stopped._

Still speaking in that achingly soft voice, Thorin set down the lamp on the workbench and then leaned both of his palms against it. "Sometimes – not, not often - we share them. With close kin, or with friends. Or lovers."

Bilbo's face felt hot. Oh, it seemed that his silly wriggling stomach-fish could _bite._

Thorin wetted his lips with his tongue. "We speak them only beneath stone, for they are always Khuzdul, the language Mahal gave us, not to be spoken in outer lands. So we call them Dark-names, to be spoken in darkness and in secret. It is… a most priceless treasure. We may tell those we love our deep-name, but it is. Not a common. Not always done, and it is a gift, to cherish and guard, to hear one is." He cut off his stammering words and took in a huge dragging breath. His hands were shaking where they rested upon the workbench.

"Special," Bilbo croaked.

"Aye." Thorin's voice cracked. "Special. Very."

"And that was…"

"My name." Thorin turned again to face Bilbo. All trace of redness had fled, and his face was pale and serious. "My dark-name. It is… it is the heart of me, the soul of me. It is written through my every cell; my blood swirls with it, my heart beats to its rhythm."

 _Heavens. And here I thought_ I _was the one who wrote poetry._

He reached out with one trembling hand and hovered it over Bilbo's cheek. "It means, 'Anvil of Hope'."

"Anvil of Hope." Bilbo lifted his own hand and covered Thorin's. A breath of air separated them, and yet whole worlds, whole oceans. "Dohyahkhir…"

"Dohyarzirikhab." Thorin's eyes glowed down at him, and Bilbo shivered. "Doh-yah-zirik-khab."

"Doh-yah-zirik-khab," Bilbo echoed, and was amazed to see Thorin's eyes slide shut as though he were listening to music instead of a Hobbit's stumbling whisper.

"Now you know everything there is to know of me, Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo swallowed and let his hand fall. "I… am afraid I am going to butcher it quite a lot before I get it right."

"That's all right." Thorin smiled. "I will enjoy hearing you practice."

"Anvil of Hope," Bilbo said, and wrinkled his nose. "That requires a bit of thinking about."

"Not so much." Thorin also dropped his hand, glancing over to the great cavernous fire-pit in the wall. An anvil sat before it, its side blackened and the base cracked. "Anvils are a tool of creation. I sought to bring hope to my people. It is not so confusing."

"So it's like a prophecy?"

"No, nothing so formal. There is no destiny in our names. Only love."

Bilbo gave the anvil a sour look. "Anvils are struck over and over again, aren't they?"

Thorin bowed his head. "Aye. Sometimes."

"Oh no. No, no, no, no, none of that!" Bilbo jabbed a finger at Thorin, and tutted at him until he met Bilbo's eyes once more. "Anvils also do not break, as far as I know!"

A dark eyebrow lifted. "I am not actually an anvil, Bilbo."

"This is your metaphor, silly Dwarf," Bilbo huffed, and he crossed his arms. "After the mess you made of mine, I'm beginning to think you shouldn't be allowed anywhere near them."

Thorin ran his hand through his hair, his face somewhat torn. "It isn't a metaphor, it is-"

"And thank you," Bilbo added, softening his tone. "Thank you for telling me. Doyka-zirik-hab."

Thorin hesitated, and then he smiled anew: that warm, lovely, mesmerising smile. "You're welcome."

Bilbo smiled back, almost despite himself. It felt right and familiar to smile at each other once more. Almost like old times.

Then Bilbo said: "I got it wrong again, didn't I."

"Yes, you did. But not badly."

"Damnation and botheration. Say it again, would you? Slower this time. And then if you'd be so kind, I'd very much like to see that pen, and you can tell me about your mother some more."

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Ghivasha – Treasure  
> Amrâlimê – love of mine  
> Kurdulu – My heart  
> Idùzhib – Diamond  
> Dohyarzirikhab – Anvil of Hope  
> Amad - mother
> 
>   **Sindarin**  
>  Hannon le – I thank you.  
> Aphado nin – Follow me!  
> Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín – A star shines upon the hour of our meeting.  
> Rhaich – curses.  
> Tiro ven Elbereth – May Varda watch over us  
> No veren – Enjoy yourself
> 
> ...
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the Chapter, 'The Houses of Healing' in _The Return of the King._
> 
> Polina is named for Pauline Letts, who voiced Ioreth in the 1981 radio adaption of LOTR (starring Ian Holm as Frodo Baggins).
> 
> Southron – This term refers to the peoples of Harad, Khand and Umbar, all of whom live south of Gondor. 'Easterling' is used to refer to the people of Rhûn, which lies east of Rhovanion.
> 
> Imloth Melui – a valley in Lossarnach, Gondor, famed for its roses.
> 
> Red Camellias mean 'unpretending Excellence'. White Camellias mean 'perfected loveliness.'
> 
> The concept of Dark-names has been expanded from this blurb, from Appendix F of LOTR:
> 
>   _But in the Third Age close friendship still was found in many places between Men and Dwarves; and it was according to the nature of the Dwarves that, travelling and labouring and trading about the lands, as they did after the destruction of their ancient mansions, they should use the languages of men among whom they dwelt. Yet in secret (a secret which unlike the Elves, they did not willingly unlock, even to their friends) they used their own strange tongue, changed little by the years; for it had become a tongue of lore rather than a cradle-speech, and they tended it and guarded it as a treasure of the past. Few of other race have succeeded in learning it. In this history it appears only in such place-names as Gimli revealed to his companions; and in the battle-cry which he uttered in the siege of the Hornburg. That at least was not secret, and had been heard on many a field since the world was young. "Baruk 'Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" - 'Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!"_ **Gimli's own name, however, and the names of all his kin, are of Northern (Mannish) origin. Their own secret and 'inner' names, their true names, the Dwarves have never revealed to any one of alien race. Not even on their tombs do they inscribe them**  
>   
> ...
> 
>  **art and artiness (cont.)**  
>  peggaboo: [Gimli, Legolas and Arod](http://peggaboo.tumblr.com/post/119474973608/thudworm-determamfidd-look-i-drew-the-thing-d)  
> mamma-scandinavia: [Thorin, ch37](http://mamma-scandinavia-personal.tumblr.com/post/119478840581/is-there-anything-left-standing-determamfidd-i)  
> welcometolotr: [Baris Crystaltongue](http://welcometolotr.tumblr.com/post/119340896716/okay-so-im-not-a-huge-dwarf-person-but-nobody-can)
> 
>  **Music/Songs of Sansukh**  
>  aviva0017: [The Iron Hills for Me (at ALEP!)](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/121529235457/yay-someone-recorded-it-xd-so-at-our-alep-events), [Cradle-song](http://aviva0017.tumblr.com/post/119018570178/so-i-said-i-wasnt-gonna-record-anything-else)  
> fishfingersandscarves: [cradle-song](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/tagged/fishfingersandscarves)  
> poplitealqueen: [Iron Hills for me on bell glockenspiel](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/119715204189/ohhh-determamfidd-youll-never-guess-what-i%22)  
> archnemeton: [Cradle-song](http://archnemeton.tumblr.com/post/119649082728/i-ended-up-reading-sansukh-again-which-led-to-a)  
> ninayasmijn: [Cradle-song on harp](http://ninayasmijn.tumblr.com/post/119278402939/via)  
> asthiathien: [Iron Hills for Me](http://asthiathien.tumblr.com/post/119241042059/cover-of-the-iron-hills-for-me-by-determamfidd)  
> sroloc-elbisivni: [Iron Hills for Me - Cello](http://sroloc-elbisivni.tumblr.com/post/119198952359/so-ive-spent-the-weekend-practicing-for-an)  
> notanightlight: [Accompanied Iron Hills for Me](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com/post/119235771328/since-everyone-seems-very-excited-about)  
> rothwen: [Cradle-song](http://rothwen.tumblr.com/post/119091731040/i-finally-managed-to-sit-down-and-read-chapter-37)  
> ...
> 
> I can always be found at [my tumblr!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/), as can links to all art, music, writings and more!
> 
> **As always, I adore and am so incredibly grateful for all your reviews and kudos and support for me and for this story. Thank you SO SO much for reading!**


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry for the long hiatus - I have recently begun a new job! To those who expressed interest and concern without pressuring me to update, thank you for your patience!_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _This is a super-SUPER-long chapter. I hope you enjoy it! ~~sorry Ricky, sorry HD~~_
> 
> _There is now a STAGGERING amount of fanwork for this story, I can't actually fit all the links into the notes anymore! I am SO UTTERLY GOBSMACKED, I daily have to pinch myself. Links to **everything** (songs, arrangements and music, the EPIC podfic project including upcoming auditions etc, UTTERLY AMAZING ART OH MY GOD, playlists, giftsets, the Sansukh graphic novel project, and more) can be found [at my tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/)! Come stop by :) _
> 
> _All the links are[at the top of my page, in the black bar](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/). I _strongly_ recommend you go through them, or peruse the [sansukh tag](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/tagged/sansukh) on my tumblr (tho perhaps not all 147 pages!!). Such incredible skill, love and dedication has gone into every one, and I am more grateful than I can EVER put words to, and so eager to share all this amazing work with everybody else. It is all jawdroppingly beautiful and skilful and exquisite, and absolutely worth your time. _
> 
> __  
> [The second chapter of the Epic Sansukh Podfic has been launched, as has the trailer for Chapter 3!](http://sansukhpodfic.tumblr.com/)  
>  _The[Sansukh Appendices](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58630) have been updated with THREE new fics, including a NSFW gigolas one-shot by yours truly: [Snowmelt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4238700), the epistolary adventures of Thorin and Dain, from the beginning to the end: [Yours Faithfully.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4352174), and the truly remarkable writing-art collaboration of Kailthia and fishydwarrows: [Wheeling Under the Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4612284)_
> 
> _The[Sansukh Graphic Novel tumblr is here](http://themightysansukhcomic.tumblr.com/)!_
> 
> ...

 

 

 

"They cannot come," said Galadriel eventually, straightening and tipping back her head. Her eyes still saw with that strange and powerful other sight. Celeborn glanced down at her Mirror, and as always, he saw his wife's face reflected back at him.

"Then what do we do?" he said aloud, and his whole soul reached for her. She touched his mind gently in reassurance, and then began to walk away from the little grove.

"I have done it before. Now I must do so again," she said softly. "It appears that the fire of the Noldor is still needed."

"Meleth," Celeborn called after her, startled.

She turned back to face him, her bare feet crushing the dew-wet grass. "Thranduil is pinned by the darkness of Dol Guldur, just as we. The Dwarves are besieged in their fortress. The Men have repelled their invaders, but now the wrath and vengeance of the Enemy will fall upon them, and swiftly."

Celeborn measured this news for a moment, felt the weight of it upon his shoulders. "But what of Lórien of the blossom?" he said eventually.

" _The Blossom already fades, my love,"_ she said into his mind, and she moved back towards him to cup his cheek with one hand.  _"You know that as well as I."_

He could say nothing to that.

  
  
Galadriel and Celeborn, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/129073454760/the-blossom-already-fades-my-love-she-said)  


" _There is no saving Lothlórien,"_ she said, sad and tender and final.

He nodded, and then he looked up into her starlit eyes. "Then let us prove that this flower yet has thorns."

" _I have done so once before, and must do so again, it seems."_  Galadriel's eyelids lowered. "Thranduil will be wroth that I have waited so long to spend my strength."

"Thranduil does not understand the price you pay to wield it," Celeborn said fiercely. All unsaid, he knew where her mind now turned. "You mean to go to Dol Guldur."

"I do."

Celeborn linked their hands and breathed her in. Between the breaths, between the heartbeats, he could feel her wordless weariness, her great strain. Her power was the only thing that protected these golden woods. She bore it uncomplaining.

As always, she answered his thought. "I would use what power and grace is left to me in one final decisive action, before the effort of defending our borders takes me beyond all hope of deeds of might. The Elven rings are waning. I soon shall fall before the probing, relentless tendrils of Mordor. I would cast the first blow, and I would make it a costly one."

Celeborn lifted her hand and kissed it. He did not need to speak.

" _If I spend my remaining strength at Dol Guldur, and fail,"_  she said, and he knew why she had not spoken it aloud, " _then Lothlórien and the Greenwood alike are doomed."_

"You will not fail." It was less a reassurance, and more a prayer. "You will not."

She smiled at him, serene and beautiful and golden, a spear of light made flesh. "My tests are passed," she said, and kissed him. "I have seen temptation, and I have refused it. What is this test, compared to that? What is death compared to the corruption of the One Ring? No, do not fear for me, my silver one. Fear for Middle-Earth instead. They need it more than I."

"I need you also, and always shall and always have," Celeborn said, and leaned his head against the side of hers for a moment. She was warm and living in his arms.

"You cannot lose me," she breathed into his ear. "We cannot be parted forever, and you will find me waiting at the end of every sea. Yet I must do this."

"Yes." Celeborn squeezed his eyes shut, and felt the long centuries stretching out behind him; all those years, all those wars, all beating a path to this place and this time. "And you shall not do it alone."

* * *

It was very cold in the place of the tombs. Bombur looked about, and shivered a little. His head was still spinning from the stars of Gimlîn-zâram.

"Why here?" he wondered aloud.

"Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea," said Bifur worriedly, and he patted at Bombur's back absently as he spoke. "Perhaps it's too soon. We should…"

"I'm fine, Barufûn," Bombur said in his soft voice, and he squared his shoulders and lifted his round, pleasant face. "I'm all right."

"He'd want his braid done proper – properly, I mean," said the Dwarrowdam before them stubbornly, catching her slip of the tongue and correcting it almost absent-mindedly. "I can do it. Besides, it's not like I can do for my." She stopped, and then looked down at her fingers.

"You needn't explain it to me, child," said the Queen – no, the Queen  _Dowager_  - tiredly.

"She looks a century older," Bifur whispered, but Bombur had no eyes for anything but his eldest daughter.

"Our special little starling, our surprise baby she was," he said, staring fixedly at her. Her brown hair was caught in a plain working-braid, her beard unadorned and her dress old and threadbare. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. The uniform of a nasty, mucky job.

The Dwarrowdam sighed and scrubbed at her eyes for a moment, and then returned to the business of twisting thick, white hair into two long braids. His arms ached with the need to hold his little girl again. She sniffled, and rubbed at her nose. It was red.

Bombur gripped at Bifur's arm, and his eyes stung and prickled. "Ah, Barís. Don't cry, poppet."

Baris wiped her forearm across her eyes again, and then broke off with a muttered curse to fumble for a handkerchief. The resulting  _blurt_  was embarrassingly loud in the cold and silent crypt.

"Sorry," she mumbled, and pocketed her handkerchief as her cheeks flushed a dull pink.

The Queen was seated beside her, her hand tightly clasping a cold and lifeless one. Bombur glanced down at the bench before them once more – and then hurriedly turned his eyes away from the wreck that was the remains of the King. "No apology needed," she said.

"I just." Barís waved a hand at the corpse. Bifur's warm arm under his fingers was the only thing keeping Bombur from rushing over to try and gather her up in a hug.

"No, no apology." Thira repeated, and she finally looked up at where Barís stood. "I did not lay out my parents. They were Burned Dwarves: I never prepared them to return to the stone. I've never done this before either." She swallowed hard. "I did not expect to do so for him. Not him."

Barís' eyes dropped. "He always seemed so. Well. Invincible."

Thira smiled. There was no true warmth in it. "Aye, well. He was good at seeming."

"At least you can return him to the stone," Barís said eventually. "At least you have that."

Thira laid a gentle hand on Barís' forearm. "We will retrieve them. Him. Barís, my son will see to it. I swear to you! You will have your father's body, to mourn and to bury."

Barís' lips tightened. "I wish–" she blurted, and checked herself. Then she scrubbed at her face again. "What bloody use is wishing, though? My Papa is dead, and wishing won't bring him back."

"Bombur - khulel, abbad. I'm here," said Bifur, low. "I'm here."

Bombur nearly bit through the inside of his cheek.

"If wishes were pigs, we'd all be riding," Thira said, and laughed joylessly. "He used to say that."

"He called me poppet," Barís said. Her beautiful voice was rough and wretched. "And I had that Mahal-cursed idea. And it killed him. My papa."

"Oh no, no you don't get to do that, darling girl," Bombur said with sudden heat. "Not your fault. Not your fault it didn't work, and not your fault I chose to go out there with my bum leg an' all!"

Thira's glance was hard and sharp. "You tried to save us all. No knife in your hands, Master-singer."

Barís bent her head. "I wish," she said again.

"My husband did the same as you: tried to save us all. So did your father." Thira shrugged one shoulder: a careless-looking movement, though her expression was anything but. "So did many others, many who tried and died. Will you claim their deaths as well?"

Barís' mouth contorted as she struggled with her sobs. "My uncle…"

"Aye." Thira looked back down at the pallid, drained, withered shape of her husband. Without the enormous force of his personality, it was easy to see how old he was – how tired and shrivelled. "He chose too. Chose to try to save the Bizarûnh. Do not make his choice into your failing. Will you strip them of their decisions in your haste to condemn yourself?"

Barís made a terrible broken sound, deep in her throat.

Thira kept gazing with endless longing at what had been Dáin Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain. His white beard was clean and now braided neatly, covering the terrible wounds upon his chest and arms. His skin was free of blood and mud, pale and parchment-dry to look upon, the eyelids closed, hollows beginning to sink upon his cheeks and either side of the sharp Durinesque nose.

"Sometimes things don't work," she said slowly, in a distant, almost dreamy voice. "Sometimes the best ideas, the best intentions, go wrong. And that may not be the fault of anyone – or it could be the fault of everyone. In another world, it might have worked. Who is to say? Without the tunnel, would the Dalefolk ever have made it to the sanctuary of the Mountain? Would Dale be a smoking graveyard now, if not for Bofur and Bombur and my silly old boar? Would bright little Gimizh be dead, or perhaps the Crown Prince of Dale dead, all those trapped underground slaughtered, if not for my Thorin and your father? If not for the diversion of Dáin? If Brand had not decided to ride out to meet him?

"And either way - what does that  _matter_? Things are as they are. They are gone back to the stone, and we are here. And life goes on. We remember. You sang that song, did you not? You carry that with you always now. That moment… it's a part of you. This moment is a part of me." She tipped back her head and her eyes fixed upon the roof with its ornate and solemn carvings. "We're all just moments and choices, in the end."

"And now I know why canny, shrewd old Dáin Ironfoot chose an unknown and crowd-shy steelsmith to wed," whispered Bombur. Bifur grunted in agreement, his face serious and set.

Barís closed her eyes, and eventually she nodded. Her mouth was still pressed in an ugly line, twitching every now and then as she barely controlled her emotions. "I know, your Majesty," she said in barely a murmur. "But I still wish I'd never thought of it."

"I can sympathise. I often wish – wished – that my idiot husband didn't have a thing about saving the day at the last minute," Thira said, and smiled a little. Unlike before, it was a true smile. "Come now, Barís. We are to become family, you needn't be so deferential. My son and your sister, eh?"

"Little idiot," Barís sniffled, and tied off a long white braid, laying it respectfully down upon the King's still and lifeless chest. "I can't believe her."

"I think it's wonderful." Thira's hand fumbled for the cold, stiffened one again, and upon finding it she squeezed a little. "So wonderful. He would have been thrilled."

"Papa too." Barís rubbed her eyes one last time, and then sighed out, long and tired. "He spoiled all my nieces and nephews outrageously, and they would climb all over his chair and pull at his nose and beard and ask for sweets and stories."

"She hasn't called me Papa for thirty years," Bombur said in a faint little voice. "I was Dad or Adad, she called me… after the Quest, after the money…"

"She didn't need to, did she?" Bifur pointed out. "You've always been Papa."

"But it all changed, we all changed so much." Bombur pulled a little at his looped braid. "We… she got taught to speak more proper, and stopped calling me Papa."

"Looks like she never stopped where it counted." Bifur turned back to his cousin, and gently rubbed Bombur's back. "There there, lad. You get used to it."

  
  
Baris, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/129920175270/she-hasnt-called-me-papa-for-thirty-years)  


"The Council has been clamouring for a wedding," Thira snorted, and then shook her head and smiled down at Dáin's still face. "How you would have laughed at them, dear. Insisting on proper Ereborean protocol in the middle of war."

"Bomfrís is still panicking a little about that. Well, I say 'a little'…" Barís laughed wetly, and then sighed again. Her shoulders relaxed from their stiff, guarded posture. "What else can I help with? He's clean, and his hair is as it should be…"

Thira's dark eyes glittered. "Always so helpful, hmm?"

Barís blinked.

"Don't think I haven't missed you hovering around my forge, Master-singer. For all your grand performer's tricks, you're rather unobtrusive, aren't you? Always helpful, always willing." Thira cocked her head. "Now, what is so fascinating about my workrooms in particular, I wonder? Not a wiry old steelsmith, Durin forbid."

A flush rose on Barís' sweet, round face, and she coughed awkwardly. "I… want to be useful."

"To one of my craftsmasters in particular, hmm." Thira huffed a little laugh. "I haven't missed that either, young Alrísul. For a trained artist, you aren't exactly a consummate actor."

"Must we speak of it now? Here?" Barís said plaintively. Then she scrubbed at her eyes again. "Oh, what use is anything anyway."

"Now is the  _best_  time to speak of it," said Thira. "This is an ending. Go make a beginning, child."

"Easy for you to say." Barís glowered down at Dáin's peaceful old face.

"No. No it isn't easy for me to say." Thira said, and her voice was suddenly sharp and cold, like steel striking steel. "This is not  _my_  beginning; for me, this is an ending. My love lies here before us, without breath or life. It is  _not_ easy for me to say."

"Forgive me," Barís said quickly. "I mean, I just. I don't know where to begin. Sometimes I think Bani doesn't even know my name…"

Thira's eyes softened. Then her hand reached out once more, and she squeezed Barís' shoulder in reassurance. Her hard, thin fingers were wiry and tough. "Remember, choices and moments, Barís," she said kindly. "Bani is a single-minded sort of lass, and gets lost in her work. She gets irritated easily by any sort of interruption, and she often forgets to eat in her zeal."

Baris digested that for a moment, and then she gave the Queen Dowager a helpless sort of look. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

Thira squeezed Barís' shoulder again. "It'll come to you, child. The moment will arrive, and with it, your choice."

"Is that the one Barís has been sweet upon, then?" Bombur wondered. "Alrís wouldn't tell me."

Bifur nodded. "Bani daughter of Bana, a woodworker. Very clever, very clumsy, very impatient. And  _very_  unobservant," he added sourly.

Barís' face scrunched up with indecision. "But… what if it all goes wrong again?" she mumbled.

"Then that is the way of things, isn't it?" Thira smoothed back Dáin's shock of white hair, standing high over his forehead. Her rough fingers lingered there. "But remember this, Crystaltongue. Sometimes, if you're very brave, very honest, very lucky… sometimes, for a time, it goes right."

Then the Queen Dowager looked up and smiled at the master-singer. There was grief in that smile, naturally – but Bombur could see the shade of a young smith with steady, fire-touched eyes and smooth skin in it: the ghost of the Dwarrowdam that had captured the heart of Dáin Ironfoot. "And if you're very, very lucky?" she said softly, "it keeps on going right, and keeps on going right. And it's just - just always  _there,_ always  _right,_ all your life long. Until one day, perhaps one hundred and thirty years later, your luck finally runs out. And it ends."

* * *

Haban tried very hard not to nod in exhaustion. The Houses of Healing were too restful, and she was just so tired. She couldn't remember being this tired in either life or death – not even when her boys had been little. Her eyes actually  _ached_. It was a new feeling.

"Are you all right?" Narvi whispered beside her. Haban jerked her head back up, blinking rapidly.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," she mumbled.

Narvi gave her a narrow look, her brows drawn together. Something – perhaps that bottomless well of anger and sorrow – was driving her, Haban thought. Narvi didn't look nearly as exhausted as she should. "You should be asleep," was all she said.

Haban yawned, and then waved a hand. "Aye, in a bit. Want to make sure he's all right."

Narvi rolled her eyes. "I doubt anything's likely to happen to him here. Unless that droning old Herbmaster bores him to death with his talk."

Haban grunted, and turned back to where Faramir lay under his coverlets, his head slightly bent. "It's not that sort of injury," she said. Narvi's glance was startled, and then she nodded with a thoughtful look in her eye.

"Aye. Not that sort of injury indeed." As always, her friend's nimble mind saw precisely where Haban's thoughts led.

"Well, I don't know what's happening," said their unexpected companion. Fris was frowning at the young Man, her foot tapping in exasperation. She had arrived to take over Haban's watch, but the Firebeard Dwarrowdam was stubbornly staying put until she was sure that Faramir would be all right.

He had impressed her, that day in the wilds of Ilthilien. And Haban did  _not_  impress easily. She gave him an approving, motherly sort of look, before stifling another yawn under her hand.

"Haban, explain it," Narvi said in that short way she had. It had taken a few misunderstandings before Haban had realised that Narvi's curtness was not actually rudeness: it was more that she was always three steps ahead of everyone, and impatient for them to catch up.

Fris' eyebrow crooked at Narvi's tone, but Haban only shrugged at the Princess with a smile. "It's just her way," she said, and rubbed at one eye. "All right, here it is: Faramir is mending well, but he still doesn't know about his father… about how he died."

Fris, bless her, caught on at once. Mahal be thanked for clever companions. "Oh," she said, and frowned at the Man. "And you wait to see how he will take the news?"

"Aye." Haban looked down at where the two little Hobbits sat, both with their pipes in hand, chatting companionably at the Man's bedside. "And with these two, it will not take long before the news is spilled."

"They are wiser than they were," Narvi added abruptly. "They'll do as good a job of work as any, with news such as this."

"If any can soften it, I suppose they can," Haban sighed. Her eyes  _really_ ached. So did her neck. Why were other folk so damnably  _tall!_  It gave one a crick in the spine that no amount of stretching seemed to help.

Fris pursed her lips for a moment. Then she nodded to where a still figure lay some distance away, unmoving beneath thick blankets. "She's listening in," she said.

"Aye, has been for a while now." Narvi crossed her arms. "She's very good at being unnoticed, but not good enough."

"I imagine she had ample opportunity to practice her skills in the Edoras of Grima Wormtongue," Fris said darkly. Then she turned back to Haban. "Why do you care so much?"

"Haban likes Faramir," Narvi said, and grinned at Haban's look of outrage and betrayal. "Thinks he's a good sort. She's been hovering over him like a stonecutter with a priceless gem ever since she found out who he was."

"He could have turned Frodo and Sam in, and he let them go," Haban said, jerking her chin up in the air. "The lad's had precious little care in his life. His brother was the only one who seemed to give a damn about him, and now he hasn't a soul left in the world. Besides, I don't often meet one who is canny enough to out-manoeuvre  _me_ at bargaining."

"See?" Narvi laughed, before she gasped and gripped Haban's arm. "Wait, what did the little one just say?"

"Something about singed foot hair?" Fris wondered, and all three leaned closer to hear.

"It's tremendously shameful, of course," Pippin said, grinning. "I shan't be able to show my face back in Hobbiton. I'll have to keep to the bounders and to Tuckborough until my feet are respectable again."

"I think we're likely to have bigger objections thrown at us than our lack of properly-combed toe-hair, Pip," Merry chuckled. "You didn't say how you lost it, though. Don't tell me you were in the battle too!"

"Oh no, no fear of that!" Pippin drew back and pointed the stem of his pipe at his cousin. "I leave that to all you foolhardy Riders and your horses and your dreadfully silly heroic stands. No thank-you! No, it was," and then he stopped, his face blanching in remembrance. His eyes flicked to Faramir before sliding away.

"Aaaand there it is," Narvi sighed.

"Oh dear." Frís pinched her nose and drew in a slow breath.

Faramir seemed to sense that Pippin's tale directly involved him in some way, and he looked between the two Hobbits with growing suspicion. "What is this?"

"Pippin!" Merry hissed, and Pippin groaned.

"I'm sorry, I am so terribly sorry, I didn't mean…"

Faramir sat up straighter in his bed. "Master Pippin, will you not tell me your meaning? It concerns me, does it not? You are referring to me in some way, it is obvious."

"He is usually very obvious," Merry agreed, glaring a little at his cousin.

Pippin winced. "Stuck my foot in it again, didn't I?"

Faramir fixed him with a level gaze for a long moment, and then his lips parted slightly in realisation and he turned away. "Ah."

"Faramir?" Pippin said tentatively. "Are. Are you all right?"

"It was not a fever-dream then," Faramir murmured, and he lay back down and drew the covers up to his shoulders. "It was true."

Merry and Pippin exchanged a worried glance. "What was?" Merry said.

"Flames," Faramir said, his voice dull. "Flames, and the face of my father all twisted in sorrow and despair. It truly happened then?"

Pippin clutched at his knee with one hand, his fingers tightening. Then he steeled himself and said clearly and with sympathy, "yes it did indeed. I was there, I rolled you away from the fire. But, your father… he…"

Faramir's eyes squeezed shut with a terrible finality. "I see. Then I have you to thank for my life."

"And Gandalf," Pippin said, and his little face was the very picture of unhappiness. "Faramir, I-"

Merry leaned over and took Faramir's hand in his, giving it a quick squeeze. "You're going to be all right," he said, clear and firm. "You are. You will make them proud."

"No," Pippin said, and his face was sincere and earnest. "You  _do_ make them proud."

Faramir's face crumpled.

Haban sucked in a quick breath, and let it out just as sharply. "Damn it all, I shouldn't care so," she growled. "Denethor's death was no loss to this world. Must be just my tiredness, making me maudlin."

"He was the boy's father, no matter how poor a job he did," Frís said gently.

"And he was poisoned by the despair of Sauron besides," Narvi spat. "If not for the Palantir and the lies of Mordor, could Denethor have been the Steward he was meant to be in the hour of need? Gandalf did say that he was once a wise and great and discerning Man…"

"Another life lost to the shadow then," Frís said finally, and the three Dwarrowdams turned back to where Faramir lay, quiet and unmoving, beneath his coverlet.

"He's all alone in the world," Haban said again into the silence. "His mother, his brother, his father – his whole family, now."

"The people love him well," Frís said. "He is cared for."

"Aye, there's that." Haban sighed out, and then a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Éowyn's eyes were now open, and she was frowning up at the ceiling.

"She's still listening," murmured Narvi.

"I'm so sorry, Faramir," Pippin said miserably. "I really did try."

Faramir said nothing, but he nodded once.

Then two little Hobbits were clambering up onto the bed and holding Faramir tightly, just as they would have done for Boromir. "I'm so sorry," Pippin repeated, and Faramir made a strangled, crushed little sound deep in his throat.

"Go on and have a good cry. You'll feel better after," Pippin said, patting at Faramir's hair with awkward, gentle hands. After another half-gritted sob, Faramir did just that.

  
  
Faramir, Pippin and Merry, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/129028524439/chapter-39-of-sansukh-merry-faramir-pippin)  


* * *

Víli rubbed at his forehead, standing before their usual table in the great eating-chamber in the Halls of Mahal. "You know that politics have never been my strong suit," he said uncomfortably. "I know the general gist, but there's undercurrents and interests and subtleties here that I'm just not grasping. I'm thinking that I might need a bit o' help on this one."

Thrór stood from the dining table at once, his brow furrowed and his eyes determined. Hrera stifled a little sigh beside him, and stood as well. "Might as well," she said in a brisk voice, and then tapped her husband on his shoulder. "And you: try not to let them rile you."

"Easier said than done," Thrór said, and shook his great bushy mane with a snort. "Right then, son, lead us there."

"I'll come too," said an unexpected voice, and Dwerís stood up from a nearby bench. The mother of Dwalin and Balin was a tall, grizzled Dwarrow with enormous shoulders and a fine brown beard with a dyed green streak down the centre and two matching ones over her temples. Her skin was littered with the marks of battle and swordplay. "I haven't checked on my youngest in some time."

"Lady Dwerís," said Víli, taken-aback. "Not like you to get involved…"

She regarded him steadily. "My husband has been bickering with his brother all this time, aye, but do not think that I have been idle. And it is not  _Lady,_  thank you kindly."

"My apologies, Warrior Dwerís," Víli said quickly, and mentally gave himself a kick.  _Rude!_

"No offense taken, but do keep it in mind." She looked back at Thrór and Hrera, before focusing on Víli again. "What is the main thrust of the discussion?"

"Food," Víli sighed, and he rubbed his head again. Oh, politics made his head  _ache._  "There's simply not enough for all the refugees now sheltered in the Mountain. They're all arguing over it, and there's a small contingent amongst the Dalefolk that is tremendously vocal. Bard can't seem to get any traction over them."

"Well, he's only days into his Kingship," said Hrera matter-of-factly. "He's bound to have a few teething troubles."

"We're wasting time," Thrór said, and he shifted from foot to foot.

"Calm now, dear," Hrera said, without looking back at him, though her hand settled lightly upon his wrist in a gesture of comfort. "Let us go see what all the fuss is about."

The benches around the pool of Gimlîn-zâram were crowded. It seemed that everyone was working around the clock, watching as often as they could, as events in Middle-Earth began to race and tumble towards their conclusion. There was hardly a seat left around the waters, and all four Dwarves had to crowd upon the one bench.

"Get your elbow out of my side."

"Where do you suggest I put it instead? Into your face?"

"Tetchy."

"Children," Hrera said wearily. "Don't make me send you all to your rooms."

Víli stared at the water, and willed it to hurry, hurry. Dis was still waiting, after all.

The first thing they heard, upon arriving in Arda with the starlight still sloughing from their eyes, was the sound of Dwalin's voice, grumbling. Dwerís gave a half-smile and stepped towards him.

"So like his father," they overheard her murmur – though Víli wondered at that. After all, Dwalin looked nearly the spit and image of his tall fierce mother, whereas Balin took more after his scholarly, solid father.

"…can't believe these two," Dwalin was growling. "You sure I can't put my axe through their heads? It'd save us two bloody annoying mouths to feed, after all."

Orla shook her head slightly. "No bloodshed in the throne-room."

"Pity." Dwalin glowered straight ahead, his brows drawing together in a thunderous frown.

"There, there." Orla sounded amused.

"I was third-in-line once," Dwalin muttered. "Mahal knows Balin wouldn't have had any bairns. I dodged an arrow there."

"You're second in line now, aren't you?" Jeri asked innocently. "I mean, until the little one gets here, you're now the heir."

"No fear! Listen to this self-pitying self-important drivel day in and day out?" Dwalin's scowl, if anything, grew even darker. "I'm not Dáin, I've no patience for this whining idiocy. I'd cut the dramatics out of them right quick."

Jeri grinned. "It would have been an interesting Erebor, to say the least."

Orla rolled her eyes.

"No matter how you slice it," Dori said crossly, his arms folded and his voice raised, "we simply  _do not have the food!_  All the complaining in the world will not change that fact!"

"And whose fault is that?" said a tall, beaky woman of Dale in shrill tones. "Hmm? Who sent all our soldiers away to some revolting tunnel, and left us unprotected? Who opened the Gates of Dale and sent us all running from our homes?"

"This is all Brand's fault!" said another Daleman, a greasy-faced fellow with a self-important sniff. "His! And yes, Bard – you supported him, you threatened us into silence when we objected… and look at us now!"

"I cannot survive this way," the woman moaned, "I have a delicate constitution! I shall faint!"

"Go ahead," Dwalin grunted.

"Oh, Lady Inorna my dear," cooed the oily Man, "calm yourself! Be strong!"

"Fainting won't get you more food either," Dori snapped. "There's not enough to feed even the Dwarves: do you really think we intend to starve everyone on purpose? We are sharing as fairly as possible; nobody is being singled out for preferential treatment, not even our own."

Bard's teeth were gritted as he said, "if we had stayed, our defences would have been toppled and our soldiers would have been slaughtered like pigs-"

The Stonehelm cleared his throat pointedly.

"All right, perhaps not like pigs," Bard corrected himself. "But we would have been overrun. You saw the size of that Easterling Army, just as I did. We would have been annihilated!"

"All you care for is your precious reputation!" Inorna accused tearfully. "Not us, not those who deserve so much better than this… this filthy hole in the ground, this grubby tomb! I am a  _noblewoman!_ "

Every single Dwarf, both living and dead, bristled with outrage.

"Beginning to think that Dwalin should do as he sees fit," Thrór muttered.

Hrera pinched the bridge of her nose. "Longbeards."

"We tried, yes. And we failed. But if we had remained where we were and done nothing, death and destruction and worse would have been visited upon us," said Bard, in a tightly-controlled voice. "What is done is now done. We must deal with what is."

The Lady Selga of Dale then stood from her place at the council table, her face still drawn with grief. "At least we tried," she rasped. "At least we did something."

"And failed!" the oily man sneered. "Our homes, our gold, our businesses! Lost, because of your failure!"

"Lord Krummett, I feel that the orcs may have had more to do with the loss of your precious gold than any of us here," said the Stonehelm in a mild tone.

"Ohhhh, I shall swoon, help me Krummett!" Inorna gasped, and she held her hand to her head in so overblown a pose that several Dwarves actually stifled giggles. "My heart is beating so: I need wine, I need cheese and fruit and pastries – you must help me, you must save me! Does nobody  _care?"_

"Oh, my dear lady!" Krummett swept towards her and held her in a greasy mockery of gallantry. "There, my sweet, breathe now!" Then he turned his piggy eyes on the Council. "How dare you upset such a sweet, generous and delicate soul!"

"Generous!" Selga laughed aloud. "Oh yes, that's certainly what you're famous for, Inorna. Generosity and kindness. Oh, absolutely so."

"My King, my King," Inorna whimpered, looking up at Bard with great glistening eyes. "You must tell them – no, you must  _make_ them help me! Dearest Bard, please! I have ever believed in you!"

"She was insulting him two seconds ago," said Glóin in open-mouthed astonishment. "And what, she fancies herself a good fit as Bard's Queen all of a sudden?"

"She's done nothing but insult everyone since the minute she set foot in the Mountain, and no doubt thinks herself more special and deserving than any Queen that ever lived," Mizim said under her breath. "I want my arrows."

Glóin gave her an amused look. "Now, that's usually my line, my Jewel."

"I have sacrificed so much," Inorna whimpered, clutching at Krummett's stained doublet. "I've been so  _caring._ I deserve so much better than this, surrounded by these vile little beasts and their greedy grasping ways…"

"How dare you," Dís said, and her mithril voice fell like a stone slab into the conversation, killing it instantly. Víli's whole heart clenched. "How dare you. You know nothing –  _nothing –_ of what we have lost. You know nothing of what  _we_  sacrificed to buy your lives."

"Dís," he said, scarcely a breath.

Thrór's hand settled on his shoulder. "I know," he said, low. "I know."

Víli took a deep breath.

"If you think," Bard said, in a voice that was barely controlled, "that you are the only Dalefolk here who have lost, and suffered-"

"Not just Dalefolk," Jeri said from their place at the throne's side, quiet and steely. "There is not a single Dwarf under this Mountain who can call themselves untouched by this siege and by our efforts to break it. Not one."

"You're alive, you twits," Bofur spoke up. "You hear that? You're ALIVE. Now, go be alive elsewhere, because you make my head hurt."

"For how long?" said Inorna, pressing her hand to her bosom, her eyes welling with tears. "This isn't living, hiding in these filthy holes!"

"I'm gonna do it," Dwalin grated.

"I might not stop you," Orla murmured. Her eyes were hard with dislike.

"And you are all in cahoots against me, it is now plain!" Inorna cried. "Why should I be singled out in this manner? I am  _delicate,_  I am  _special,_  I cannot be expected to do as the common and smallfolk do!"

"It is the brutality of the Dwarves showing through, my dear," Krummett said in what he probably thought was a stern tone. It came out as a sulky whine instead. "And you are so wise, sweet Inorna, so very wise… yes, they are all in league against us, there is no other explanation for their beastly behaviour. Brand and Bard and Dáin must have been plotting in secret, no doubt. But I am here, kind lady, lovely lady! I shall protect you from their-"

In unison, Dwalin and Orla stepped forward from where they stood at guard. Then, in eerie silence, Dwalin drew his huge battle-axe and Orla brought forward the long-handled axe that had given her its name. In perfect unity they brought out two stones and began to whet the edges.

_Whisk. Whisk. Whisk._

Inorna and Krummett ceased their histrionics immediately.

"There's my lad," said Dwerís proudly.

Selga turned away from them, her lip slightly curled in disgust. "Nevertheless, the First Advisor is right. Good people paid the price to remedy our failure," she said, and her eyes fell to the ground.

Both Bard and the Stonehelm's shoulders slumped. "Aye," said the Stonehelm quietly. "They did."

"Too many," Bofur added, and his face was stony. "Too many of 'em."

Dori stamped his foot in irritation. "Excuse me! Hello? Back to the point? THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TO EAT. The Mountain is going to starve in under three weeks if we do not find another source of food!"

Glóin cleared his throat. "Aye, Dori brings us back to the meat of the matter – so to speak. What can we do? Ideas?"

Merilin suddenly made a move from the up-until-now silent Elven presence. "We still have some store of waybread. Lembas. It is filling, and nutritious, and the recipe is easily replicated. We shall share it with your cooks."

"Good, good." Glóin stroked his beard and nodded. "Now, there may be a few things squirrelled away in people's larders…"

Bard spoke then. "What about Cram? Is there flour enough?"

Bofur shuddered. "I did not risk my bloody life to eat bloody  _cram._ I'll take my chances with the Elvish stuff before I volunteer for that boring chewing-exercise of a meal."

The Stonehelm threaded a hand into his hair and leaned on his elbow, his face creased up with thought. "It is midwinter, and there are few fish in the River Running," he said, "but there may be some. In the deep pools there are strange fish with feelers and huge eyes: we must send scouts."

"'m so sick of fish," came a petulant little grumble from near Laerophen's chair.

"You'll eat what you get, my lad," Bofur said at once.

Genild tipped her white, grizzled old head. "My wife's a dab hand at making preserves and pickles. We've got a whole cupboard full of 'em. No doubt Barur Stonebelly can make a little go a long way."

"Ma," Jeri said, wincing.

"Hush, darling, Ma's working," Genild said, and she leaned forward and stabbed at the table with a finger. "Here's a thing to consider: I know Dwarves can go a lot further on less food than Men can, though I'm not sure about Elves. P'raps Beri's preserves and pickles will help stave off some of those deficiency diseases, for a time anyway…"

  
  
Beri and Genild, by [Lacefedora](http://lacefedora.tumblr.com/post/129681918856/the-wonderful-determamfidd-commissioned-me-to-draw)  


"Good idea, we'll ask around the marketholders as well, no doubt some of them will have stores in place," Glóin said, and he made a little note.

"Mister Bofur, I do hate to ask you," Dori began, touching Bofur politely on the arm. Bofur sighed and let his head droop a little.

"Aye, we'll talk to Alrís, see if we can't go through Bombur's inventory. He was a great one for keeping speciality stuff. He might even have jam amongst his wares."

"I'll pay for it, then," said Inorna immediately. "I will pay for it, though heaven knows you should simply  _give_ it to me _…_  but if I must play by your sordid rules, then I will give you gold for better rations, I am wealthy, I will…"

"Food will be shared out equally," said the Stonehelm in a voice that brooked absolutely no argument. Thrór gave him an approving nod.

"Not bought by those with means and influence," said Dori.

"And no amount of threatening or wheedling or even swooning will change that," Bard finished.

Inorna quivered, drawing herself up straight. "That… that is….!" She spluttered in outrage and thwarted self-importance.

"He's doing well," Thrór murmured to Hrera, who took his hand. "He's doing the throne proud so far."

"Bard is faring less well," she said quietly. "This pair of selfish fools do not see him as their King yet. They fear the Dwarves, however, even as they despise us. The Stonehelm must lead this sortie. He must use that fear to quell them, or they will gain a platform from which to shout down any attempts at reason."

Víli rubbed his temples. "I hate this," he grumbled. "I don't know how you put up with it."

"Practice. And ale – lots and lots of ale," Thrór said wryly, and then Hrera hushed them both.

"You see what we were up against?" Bard said, leaning in to whisper in the Stonehelm's ear. The new Kings shared a look of fellow-understanding, and then the Stonehelm patted Bard's shoulder.

"You have my deepest sympathies," he said.

"Anyway, what do you intend to use to pay for it? Buttons? Hot air?" Glóin added, a trifle rudely. Mizim chuckled.

"There's my old bear, knew you wouldn't hold your temper forever," she smiled.

Dori tapped his foot. "A- _hem!"_

"Right. Back to it." Dwalin scratched at his bald pate. "I think we've got some liquor and wine put away. It'll be a wrench to part with it – they're from the years our boys were born – but they're better off in Barur's hands. He'll make 'em stretch."

Bofur heaved a great sigh. "An' I suppose I've got some beer in the cool-room."

"That'll go a long way, stews and soups and the like," said Dori, nodding. Glóin made another little note.

"We need centralised distribution," said the Stonehelm, speaking over the new murmurs as this new and expanded Council began to put together a plan. "No doubt many will hide the food they have, and that is understandable. Yet others will suffer for it. We must make it plain that we stand together or not at all."

"We can make a big to-do about contributing," suggested Mizim. "Do it in public, perhaps?"

"Aye, good idea," the Stonehelm nodded. "What we haven't got is meat…"

"There's birds above the Mountain…" Laerophen said, and Glóin pulled a face.

"Aye, but if you hit a raven or a thrush, you're probably going to wish the Orcs got you."

Laerophen regarded him unblinking. "I am an Elf. If I cannot tell the difference between a duck, a pheasant, a Raven or a thrush from four hundred paces, you may file down my ears and call me a Man."

There was a giggle from under the chair. "Good one."

Glóin's mouth twitched, as though fighting a grin. "You little traitor, grandson," he said.

"If it is centralised distribution you need, then I have some experience…" Krummett began in a ingratiating sort of voice.

"Thank you for the offer, Lord Krummett, but your services will not be needed," said the Stonehelm in a tone that brooked no opposition.

"Ah, you see, you see!" Inorna shook her finger at them all. "This is BLATANT favouritism, and prejudice towards Men!"

Bard stood all at once, the scrape of his chair very loud. "Get out," he said, clearly and firmly. "Stop this posturing, stop forcing yourself where you are not wanted, and get. Out."

They balked at the look upon his face, and when Dwalin raised his axe with casual and deadly meaning, both the silly selfish popinjays turned on their heels and ran.

"Thank Mahal," the Stonehelm said fervently. "You're more patient than I, Bard."

"I would not have had the leverage to do that, were you not by my side," he answered, bowing his head. "So that victory belongs to you."

The Stonehelm grinned suddenly, a flash of white teeth amidst his cropped ginger beard. "Bet it felt good though, right?"

Bard grinned back. "I've been wanting to do that for fifteen years, but they've always been too wealthy and powerful to oust. They ran roughshod over my father in his later years, old and tired as he was. Damn. That was marvellous."

"Right, well, that's taken care of at last," Dwalin grunted, and he holstered his axe again on his back. "We could use my troops to distribute the food, if it's a centralised and coordinated lot you're after."

Dori pursed his lips. "I think not, Mister Dwalin sir," he said, thinking hard. "The Army has enough to be going on with, thank you kindly. There may be a siege on, but I don't recall declaring military law in Erebor."

"I think we're a little past that now, don't you?" said Orla.

"Possibly, possibly," Dori waved a hand. "Still, if that's the case, then as the duly elected representative of the Guilds  _and_ as the Quartermaster of Erebor's forces, I would like to offer my services. In conjunction with Barur Stonebelly and the representatives of the Men and Elves, of course…"

Dís leaned back in her chair, and then she turned to the new King. "Perfect," she said simply.

"Aye," he said, nodding. "Master Dori, you do us honour."

Laerophen, after a brief moment of whispering with Merilin, said, "my second in command Merilin is pleased to represent the Elves and to work together with Master Dori to ensure fairness and justice."

"Also, I know the recipe for lembas, and he doesn't," Merilin said drily.

"I will stand for the Dalefolk," said Selga, glancing at Bard, who nodded.

"Nobody better. May I formally introduce the Lady Selga, granddaughter of the Princess Sigrid and my cousin."

"Charmed," Dori said, with a brisk little bow. "Tea later: work first. Glóin, you seem to have begun an inventory already: may I prevail upon you to take on the numbers and record-keeping?"

Glóin chuckled. "Aye, my old friend. I've been bored stiff in retirement."

"I wanna help Dori too!" came a squeak from under Laerophen's chair.

Dori cringed, ever so slightly.

"In the interests of keeping Dori sober, perhaps not," said Dís. "Gimizh, you will assist me in telling the people about the food-collection. You  _and_ your little friends."

A petulant little sigh came from underneath the Elf's chair. "Oh, all  _right."_

"You'll need people to guard the food-stores," said Genild, tugging at her beard-braid. "I'll do that. There's precious little to do on the walls except shoot arrows, an' I've never been an archer."

The Stonehelm turned to Laerophen and Bard, and said, "the Lady Genild is a veteran of the Battle of Five Armies, whom I have known since my childhood in the Iron Hills. Her loyalty is unimpeachable and unassailable, and I personally vouch for her. She is also a dangerous warrior."

Jeri pulled a face. "All right, I'll admit Ma is a good choice to guard the stores then."

"Wait till I tell your Amad," Genild said, her eyes sparkling in her strong, wrinkled face.

Jeri rolled their eyes. "Amad'll want to guard right alongside you."

"Mmmm. I'm counting on it."

Jeri wrinkled their nose.

Dori, Selga and Merilin eyed each other cautiously. "Well then," Dori ventured at last, "shall we begin?"

Dís stood, and began to leave. "Lady Dís?" Selga called after her. "You depart?"

"I don't expect to be very helpful to the proceedings, Lady Selga," Dís said in an expressionless voice, without so much as breaking her stride. "It could be because I haven't been very hungry lately."

Víli's heart sank just a little lower in his chest, and he fisted his hands by his sides.

"Not long," Hrera said gently, and patted his shoulder again. "Not long now."

* * *

"It's the pause between the hammer blows," Gimli murmured, and he gripped his pipe between his teeth. "I can feel it in my bones. The stones fairly shake beneath my feet."

"For a city that has been saved from ruin, there is little in the way of joy in the air," Legolas said, and he looked out over the great churned plain that was the Pelennor. They were sitting in the courtyard at the height of the seventh level, looking out over the city. The citadel was to their backs, and the icy wind blew into their faces. It had taken Gimli three tries to light his pipe.

"At least Merry is healing well," Gimli said gloomily, and he took a drag on the pipe and smoothed down the wisps of his beard that were, once again, escaping. "After all the pains they have cost us, I would be grieved if he were still lying abed."

"You would be grieved beyond the pains they cost us, you don't fool anyone at all," Legolas said, smiling.

"Aye, it was good to visit them, and to talk," Gimli conceded. "And Pippin's stash of Longbottom Leaf is a welcome taste."

Legolas wrinkled his nose. "For you, perhaps."

It was to these words and this sight that Thorin arrived: the Elf and Dwarf sitting in the thin sunshine before a withered white tree. To the casual observer, no doubt they appeared as they ever had: two friends, spending time together and taking the air. However, Thorin could now spot the subtler nuances: the way Legolas leaned slightly against Gimli's broad shoulder, the way Gimli seemed to relax against Legolas' side, the small secret trade of touches between swift hands.

They looked content enough, and the tension bled from Thorin's shoulders.

"Then they have made their peace and settled matters between them," he said, almost to himself. "Good. That is very good."

"And you were pleased to see Arod also, do not dissemble," Legolas laughed.

Gimli sniffed. "He's a horse of Rohan, isn't he? He's used to a certain standard o' living. The Rohirrim treat their horses as good as their kin, some of them. Wanted to be sure they were stabling him right, that's all."

"It was not me who brought him carrots and apples from our plates."

"I wasn't going to eat them, and it doesn't do to waste food." Gimli patted Legolas' knee. "I could have done without all the staring though. And you! Singing all the way there and back, as though you could not feel all those eyes following us every step we took!"

Legolas tipped his head. "Did they concern you? I saw you stumping along and stroking your beard…"

Gimli bit down on the stem of his pipe, and puffed a couple of times. His face was as good as an answer.

"Meleth," Legolas breathed, and he leaned down until his chin brushed the top of Gimli's fiery head. "They stare at an Elf and a Dwarf, the first they have ever seen, the strange companions of the mysterious Lord Elfstone. If I can bring some music into this sad place after the tumult of warfare and the sound of crashing boulders, why not?"

Gimli muttered something inaudible, and then patted Legolas' knee again. "Kindly said, ghivashelê. And I have no quarrel with them and their staring: I am merely tired of being a curiosity, it seems. At least here only the Citadel guards may peer at us."

"Then I may sing here?" Legolas teased.

Gimli chuckled, a gravelly rumble. "As if anyone could ever stop you from singing!"

Thorin looked up. The Citadel Guards stood about the court as usual, resplendent in their cloaks and winged helms. Half their attention was fixed on the strange couple, though they were otherwise motionless.

"He's cut his beard again," Frerin murmured at Thorin's side, and Thorin nodded and drew him closer. He was well-aware that Frerin was still shaken, still wounded, but he trusted that his canny, bright younger brother knew his own strength.

And, too, there were no battles here.

"That'd be for Dáin, I expect," Frerin continued, and his mouth tightened slightly. His hand came up to finger the shortened, rough bristles at the side of his own face, and his eyes slid to the side to brush over the third member of their little watch.

Dáin was tense-faced, and his jaw rippled. "He shouldnae done that," he muttered. "No need."

"Gimli observes the forms, even amongst outsiders," Thorin told him. Then he gave his cousin a sad half-smile. "He is as much Dwarf as he ever was, despite the company he keeps."

"As though even the love of an Elf could change that," Dáin snorted softly. Something caught his attention, and he nodded to the citadel door. "Here's something."

Frerin squinted, his young eyes keener than either of theirs. "Aragorn," he said, and then he gasped. "He looks  _dreadful."_

Thorin's head whipped away from Dáin, and there indeed was Aragorn. His face was drained and pinched, and his eyes were awful. "Gimli," he said, sharp and short.

Gimli's head rose immediately. "My King?"

"Look to your friend," he said, and Gimli stood (with a little effort – it appeared that the aftermath of battle still left him stiff and sore), and cast his eyes about until he caught sight of their leader.

"Lad," he said low, and nudged Legolas, before breaking into a jog.

Legolas, who had been looking up at the white and wizened tree, blinked. Then he spun about to see Aragorn leaning heavily upon the citadel walls, and soon he was running towards him, overtaking Gimli with ease.

"Mellon nín, what is this?" he said, taking Aragorn's arm and bracing him.

Aragorn's head tipped back, and his eyes were bruises in his face. "I…"

"Right, sit him down," Gimli said briskly, arriving a breath or two behind Legolas. "Answers will wait, but he's about to keel over."

"Has he slept at all?" Dáin wondered. "He has been in the Houses of Healing…"

"Haban said he was to sleep after he visited there," Thorin said, scratching at his head. "I can think of no other claim upon his time, no other emergency that needs his attention. There are few who know him by sight, though no doubt the rumour is speeding its way through the city after his banner was flown atop the Black Ships. And the healers of the Houses too, Haban said they were gossips of the first order: they will have done their part, and tongues will wag long into the night. Yet only Imrahil and Faramir, of all the Men of Gondor, know his true face and name. To all else he is but the Lord Elfstone."

"Rumour is only rumour," Dáin agreed, and he chewed on his lip for a moment. "Then this is not simple exhaustion. Something else."

Gimli, who was easing Aragorn down upon the raised white stone circle that ringed the dead tree, harrumphed. "It would be very nice if we could cease all speculation until the lad has had water and air and a puff of my pipe. We'll get our answers soon enough. You lot! Be elsewhere!" He raised his voice to the Citadel Guard, who all appeared very surprised indeed to be so ordered about by a Dwarf.

Perhaps it was surprise that led them to obey, or perhaps it was Legolas adding, "we will guard the White Tree. You need fear no treachery from such as we, for did we not come to the aid of Minas Tirith in her hour of need? Stay close, but give us space, if you would."

They bowed slightly, and then left. One or two sent inquisitive looks back over their shoulder as they entered the guardhouse by the Citadel.

Aragorn's head lolled forward, and Legolas was forced to hold him via a hand to the centre of his chest to keep him from pitching forward. "I have never seen him thus," he said, turning worried eyes on Gimli.

"No; I neither," Gimli said, and he worked at his belt-pouch with clumsy, rushed fingers, bringing forth his travel-skin. "Here, water."

Legolas took it and brought the lip to Aragorn's mouth. He took two great swallows, and then slumped back. His colour seemed better: closer to his normal weather-beaten brown, rather than that sallow, sickly grey.

"Now, breathe a bit, and then tell us what in Mahal's name you've been doing to yourself," Gimli said, and he sat down beside the Man and shared a worried look with Legolas.

Aragorn took another sip of the water, and then he lifted his head with some effort. "I looked into the Palantir."

Thorin was struck dumb with horror.

Gimli was not. "You did  _what?!"_

"Why would you do such a thing?" Legolas demanded. "That stone is turned to Sauron's will: it is the instrument of Denethor's despair! Why, Aragorn? Why, when the victory upon the field is ours?"

"The victory on  _this_ field, indeed," Aragorn croaked. "But not this war."

There was a sharp intake of breath from where Dáin stood, but Thorin could not spare his attention. Whatever his cousin had realised, it would have to wait.

"Speak to the point," Gimli said, though his gentle hands belied his words. "Do not spend your strength on reasons and whyfores. What happened?"

Aragorn closed his eyes and leaned back against Legolas and Gimli, letting them prop him up… as indeed, Thorin could now see, he had relied on them to do so all this way. "Minas Tirith is safe for now," he said, his voice faint but true. "But even such a battle as we have fought is all for nothing if the true quest does not succeed."

"Frodo and Sam," said Legolas, nodding.

"Frodo and Sam," Aragorn agreed. "We know from Faramir that they have taken the pass of Cirith Ungol. If they have escaped the notice of both Minas Morgul and the terror that lives within the pass, then they now face all the hordes of Mordor gathered together upon the plain of Gorgoroth…"

"A feint," Dáin grunted. "He's taunting the enemy, drawing him out."

"No more reasons, I said," Gimli soothed, and wetted his hands to lay them upon Aragorn's brow. "I've no skill such as you, but you are burning up. There, that must feel better."

"It does." Aragorn leaned into Gimli's rough, work-worn hands. "Who knew Dwarves had such gentleness within them?"

"He is ever a surprise to me," said Legolas tenderly, and Aragorn gave a weak little laugh.

"Took you long enough, you stubborn pair."

As Legolas' ears turned scarlet and Gimli roughly cleared his throat, Aragorn smiled and opened his eyes. "I am full of joy for you both," he said simply.

"You're full of stuff and nonsense, you daft Man," Gimli grumbled, and he patted the cool water upon Aragorn's brow some more. "And my uncle is – was – a healer. We're not stone all through, I'll have you know."

"I am sure Legolas can attest to it," Aragorn said, and his voice was a little stronger - and a little sly.

Legolas coughed. "Back to your tale. We are but a footnote."

"No happiness is ever a footnote," Aragorn said, and still he let loose a groan of defeat. "Very well."

"Take another sip," Gimli said, hovering like a bird with a poorly chick. "Then we can re-fill my pipe…"

"No, no pipe," Aragorn said, though he dutifully took another slug of water. "He is wreathed in flames and darkness and smoke. I cannot face even the familiar embers of Shire-weed."

"You spoke to him," Legolas guessed.

"I said no words," Aragorn slumped back, braced between his friends, and the water-skin dangled loosely from his hands.

"He has wrestled with the Shadow," Thorin said, and Frerin shrank against his side. "That is why he is so drained, so weary. For all his might, Aragorn is but a mortal Man, and he has now faced the will of Sauron himself."

"You saw him, then," Gimli said, and his eyes grew hard and fearful. "Lad, breathe a moment more."

"Stop cosseting, Gimli," Aragorn said, and patted Gimli's shoulder. "I will be well… in a moment or two."

"You nearly pitched forward onto your face, and don't think I haven't realised that you came looking for us," Gimli shot back. "Something in that scruffy head knows to seek your friends when you're in trouble. So shut up and let me fuss if I want to. I'd like to see you stop me – you're as fearsome as a kitten right now."

Aragorn smiled again. "Dwarves," said Legolas fondly.

Gimli sniffed, and Frerin echoed it. "Aye, all right, yes, we can all laugh at me later, when you're a little steadier," he said sternly. "If the pair of you could stop worrying the life out of me, that'd be grand. Why, we stand in a city freed of all menace, and you  _still_ find a way to turn my hairs white!"

Dáin rolled his eyes. "Oh, so he's that sort. Rude with relief."

"You'd be rude too, if your friends made a habit of scaring you half to death every so often," Gimli immediately retorted – and then a look of pure horror crossed his face as he realised he had spoken to his kin aloud before Aragorn. "Ah, I…"

"I want answers, and soon." Aragorn pushed himself up to give Gimli a long, measured look. "For why you speak as though answering the air, why you mutter to yourself every so often. I will not be put off, Gimli Glóin's son."

Gimli gulped. "Finish your tale first, and then you shall hear mine," he promised, and his voice was much more subdued than the bluster of his worry and panic.

Legolas pressed one hand against his chest, his expression earnest. "It is nothing to cause harm, I swear it," he said.

"Then you know? What am I saying, of  _course_  you know." Aragorn shook the hair from his eyes, and then wiped a trembling hand down his face. He had not had the proper tools to shave as Men did for some weeks, and his habitual scruff was beginning to form a respectable beard. It rasped beneath his palm. "My tale… it is not long. I looked into the stone, and flames carried me off to some dark realm. There he waited for me. Sauron, cloaked in shadows and crowned with fire, his Eye a terrible burning brand against my mind. I have never felt the like, never been so afraid in my life. It took all my strength, but I spoke no words to him, gave him no opening."

"But he showed you something, just as he showed Denethor?" Legolas wondered.

"He did." Aragorn's face stilled, until he looked more like the statues of the Argonath than ever. Hard, deadly, ancient and cold. "I showed him the Ring of Barahir, the Sword that was Broken. I heard him whisper my names, one after the other, all finishing with  _Elessar, Elessar._ And it cut me through to my marrow and froze my blood, and I struggled against his whispers. Yet this was not enough to break my resolve.

"He showed me great kingdoms and armies, mine to rule and command." Aragorn's laugh was hollow. "I said nothing. When in my life have I wanted for armies and kingdoms, though they follow after my bloodline like sniffing dogs? The leathers of a Ranger of the North were enough for my forebears, and they have been enough for me. When he realised that power was no temptation for me, he tried another tactic. He showed me riches beyond belief, and told me they were mine if I would but lay down my sword. He showed me the gathered might of the Dark Tower, endless waves of Orcs all marching, marching. The Palantir cannot lie, it can only be twisted to show that which the wielder wishes. I have no doubt that these things are true: the riches, the armies, all of it. Through it all, he urged me to lay down my sword. And in that I found my courage again.

"He fears the Sword that was Broken. He fears the blood in my veins, for all its weakness." Aragorn sounded wondering and amazed. "I could feel it. The pain of losing his form has never faded, and he has never forgiven Isildur for it. How he must have rejoiced in Isildur's ruin!"

Thorin laid a careful hand on Frerin's shoulder, and let his fingers tighten protectively.

"What then did he show you, mellon?" Legolas prompted, in barely a whisper. "What is it that has wounded you so?"

"Arwen." Aragorn's lips tightened, and the little colour he had regained began to leech away from his cheeks. "He showed me Arwen."

Legolas' breath caught, and Gimli glanced up at him with unreadable dark eyes, before turning back to their friend.

Aragorn continued in a voice full of anguish, but his face remained resolute. "She has spent so much of her grace, her arts, protecting me and her home. I knew I felt her when the river Isen swept me away, I  _knew it."_

"Explains a little more about your uncanny luck, I suppose," Gimli grunted, though his expression was still worried.

"He made promises to you," Legolas said. "And threats to her."

Aragorn gave a single, slow nod. "He whispered that I had but to lay down Andúril, and she and I would be healed, my mortal gift and mortal doom would be lifted away, and we should live together in peace for all time. But should I stay my course…"

"He lies," Gimli said staunchly.

"He lies, but in his lies are the grain of truth, and it is that which makes them so easy to swallow," Aragorn said brokenly. "She is dying. Lord Elrond told me as much, when he met with me at Harrowdale. Arwen's life is tied to the fate of the Ring… and the fate of the Ring is tied to that of two small, brave Hobbits."

Abruptly, Thorin remembered a conversation – it seemed years ago, and not mere weeks – between the aged Bilbo and the Elf-woman. Her luminous beauty had dimmed, even then, and she had seemed sad and listless and discontented. "So that is what ailed her," he muttered.

"Hobbits who face the plain of Gorgoroth before them, and that endless sea of Orcs you saw," said Gimli with a sigh. "Truth mixed with lies. I begin to understand Denethor better now. What must he have seen, to bring him to such an unhappy pass!"

"Then has showing yourself to Sauron and declaring your lineage achieved nothing? Has this removed our advantage, do you suppose?" Legolas said, and his fair brows drew together. "We have trusted in secrecy for so long. Your birthright has remained hidden, and safe, for centuries."

"A secret is only worth keeping if it protects, otherwise it is nothing but a burden. It is a necessary sacrifice, and the decision to declare myself was made when I raised my standard at the Stone of Erech." Aragorn smiled, tight and unhappy. "We have not the numbers to challenge the Black Land. We cannot invade it. We cannot break the Gate. But we can draw them out. We can force his hand."

Gimli let out a slow 'ahh' of satisfaction. "He's a vengeful sort, and if, as you say, he hasn't forgotten that sword and what it cost him, why then he'll lose his head completely. He'll want to crush you simply for being you. Pride and rage. That's a useful sort of weakness, that."

_Pride and rage. Pride and rage. Crush you simply for being you. A useful sort of weakness. Pride and rage…_

Frerin pinched Thorin's arm. "Stop it," he growled.

Thorin pinched back. " _You_  stop it," he grumbled. "I am all right. Stop worrying."

Frerin raised an eyebrow at him. "You first."

"Have you spoken to Gandalf about this?" asked Legolas.

"I saw no need." Aragorn said, and his voice rang out, heavy and kingly, weary though it was. "This is my hour, though I have sought it not. The stone is my birthright, and the decision mine to make. If I make one choice for the good of Middle-Earth, let it be this one. I will save them, if I can. The duty is clear."

"That sounds familiar," Dáin murmured, and he gave Thorin a twinkling look from under his brows.

Frerin chuckled. "Doesn't it just."

"So, we are to march on the Black Gate, is that it?" Legolas said, and he hissed softly between his teeth. "A mouse challenging a lion."

 _The Morannon was impenetrable. They had no hope of success. Everything depended upon Frodo – as it always had._ Thorin met Dáin's eyes again, and saw his own bleak conclusions reflected back at him.

"This mouse has a famous sword, and stalwart friends," Gimli said, and sat back. "You're as recovered as you're ever going to be without an ale and a good night's rest, I suppose. Please refrain from shocking me for the next hour or two, if you can possibly help it."

Aragorn laughed. It was faint, but real. "I will try, my friend."

"Then I am content."

"And now I have questions," Aragorn pushed himself up straighter, and levelled the Dwarf with a stern gaze. "Who is it you speak to when nobody is there to answer?"

"An hour, I said!" Gimli grated. "It has not even been a minute!"

"Meleth nín," Legolas murmured, and his long-fingered hand brushed against Gimli's shoulder, light as a settling leaf. "You promised."

Aragorn waited, silent and expectant.

Gimli winced. "I did." Then he let his chin drop against his chest. "Forgive me, my King."

"Tell him, Gimli. It does no-one any harm, and may help." Thorin said, and Frerin looked up at him with a questioning expression. Dáin made a noise of surprise.

"Are you sure?" Gimli pressed, and Thorin fought against the reflexive instinct to say,  _no, keep our secrets, keep them safe in your heart beyond the reach of those who cannot care for them_.But no. There were greater things, and greater needs, than their secrets. The fate of Middle-Earth was one of them.

He lifted his chin. "You have been right before. And I trust you shall be right again. Aragorn speaks the truth: our secrecy is only a boon when it serves a purpose. Protecting our folk is one thing. Protecting Frodo's Quest is quite another. In this, you have been wiser than I, my star. You do indeed see clearly. Speak now, and give Aragorn the hope he needs."

Dáin was giving him a very searching look, but eventually he nodded as well. "Aye, tell them, laddie. Let us help in what little way we can. There are more important things than our pride."

Gimli swallowed, hard. "Very well." Then he turned to the other members of the Three Hunters, squared his jaw and his shoulders and said without preamble, "I hear the voices of the Dead."

Aragorn's eyes widened.

"Oh, for Mahal's sake, does the lad keep his brains in his biceps?" Dáin moaned. "He should have led up to that!"

"Gimli is not subtle," Frerin mumbled. He was covering his face with his hands. "At all."

"He is Glóin's son: his axe is subtler than he is, true enough." Thorin rubbed his brow. He found he was smiling a little helplessly.  _Oh, my star, ever you cheer me when I need it most!_  "Blunt and honest, that's his way."

"Blunt!" Dáin snorted loudly. "Thorin,  _I'm_ blunt, and I still manage a feint or two. Gimli is a verbal battering ram!"

"I am  _not_ ," Gimli rumbled, his face torn between outrage and amusement. "Just don't see the point of chipping around the stone piece by tiny little piece. Better to cut it and have done."

"The dead?" Aragorn said carefully.

Gimli held up a hand. "Now, before you think me mad, I should explain further," he said. "The Dwarven Dead, my kin. They have some means to see us, here in Middle-Earth, through the parting mists over the sea and through death itself. I do not know how. But ever since Lothlórien - " here, Aragorn straightened in shock, "- I have known their voices, and heard their words. Over time I have grown used to their presence by my side, and can now pick out who it is that follows in my steps. One in particular has been my guide and my light…" Gimli licked his lips and his words trickled to a halt.

"The Paths of the Dead," Aragorn said, as though realising it only now. "You fell behind not only through your fear, but because you could feel them close after…"

"Aye, and see them, just as we saw the dishonoured ones, though they faded from view once we left the cursed Mountain," said Gimli. "They are here, even as we speak."

Aragorn turned to Legolas. "You believe this?"

"I have seen it with my own eyes," Legolas said, lifting his face as though defending Gimli against some criticism. "They give him tidings from other lands that he could not have possibly known otherwise, and I could make out the shapes of Dwarves in the gloom of the Stone of Erech; Dwarves whom I  _personally_  know to be dead."

"Tidings?" Aragorn pounced on the word like a hunting cat. "Then have they seen…"

Gimli nodded. "Aye. They watch it all."

"Can they tell us of Frodo and Sam?" Aragorn said at once, and Gimli grimaced.

"When and if they will. When and if they permit it."

"Frodo Baggins lives, and is free," said Thorin instantly. "He and Sam are still together. They passed into Mordor, and now make their through the Morgai towards the dark plain. Tell him, Gimli."

Gimli repeated this, and then rubbed at his forehead. "So says my King. Well, one of them. It seems I collect them."

"Thank Elbereth, I have not acted rashly and thrown everything into ruin." Aragorn deflated, and then he frowned. "Your King?"

"Thorin Oakenshield," said Gimli, proud and strong and as Dwarvish as the deep music of the earth itself. "Melhekhelê, my king of all kings, my guide, my great mentor. It is his voice I hear, loudest and clearest; his voice that brings me light and hope."

"He is dead for nearly eighty years," Aragorn said in astonishment. "I remember the tidings in Rivendell when I was but a child!"

"Aye." Gimli's voice shook with pride. "He is. But even death may not stop a Dwarf when they truly set their mind to something."

If his eyes travelled to Legolas as he spoke, well, none of them dared to mention it.

"Let me see if I have this aright. You hear the voice of a great departed hero of your people, speaking to you in your mind?" Aragorn said dubiously.

"You led us into the Golden Wood and out again, took us by the Dimholt road and commanded an army of ghouls to do your bidding, and an Elf-woman uses her arts to protect your skinny arse from half a world away," Gimli said, crossing his arms and raising his brows. "So what's your point?"

Legolas covered his smile with a hand.

"And Thorin Oakenshield is but one of the voices I hear. I have been hearing him for decades, ever since I was a rather rash and foolish tufty-beard in Ered Luin. I did not know it until Lothlórien, when I was granted leave to peer into the Lady's Mirror and saw him there. He has been joined in recent months by many more. That, or my mind's ear is sharper than it was."

"Tell me, then," Aragorn said, evidently deciding to trust Gimli's word. It seemed that the mention of Galadriel's Mirror had given him some pause for reconsideration. Thorin wondered if he found it strange that a Dwarf had been given leave to gaze into one of the great Elven mysteries.

"There is also Dáin Ironfoot, Zabadâl belkul, the Restorer of my homeland." Gimli's head dipped. "He is a new voice, and a new grief to me. My uncle I hear, too, and my cousin Balin. Nori and Ori, Lóni and Frár, all my friends and family who now sleep in the stone. They all gather close, and to me is given the great gift of sensing their nearness. I do not know how, but it makes me wonder: for how many centuries have our loved ones watched us, as near as breath itself, and as far away as the moon? And we did not know."

Legolas reached out, and his fingers clasped loosely around Gimli's thick wrist in silent reassurance.

With blinking eyes, Aragorn slowly said, "that must be a comfort. To know that you are loved, and that those who came before you are proud of you. To have your blood watch over you, and to not feel unworthy before their eyes. To fear no weakness, for their strength is part of you."

"I don't know about that," said Gimli gruffly. "I've done some mighty foolish things, and I've been powerfully afraid. They've been irritated with me as often as they have been proud, but there's nothing new about that. T'is commonly said that the word for a group of Dwarves is  _a Quarrel of Dwarves,_  and that's not far wrong. But aye, it is a comfort. I was a Dwarf alone before I knew. Now I know that no Dwarf ever walks alone, no matter how strange their path."

"Gimli," Thorin said, "tell him not to fear his blood. It is only blood. Faults and failings are not passed down through the generations like a family nose. Now that he has declared himself, let him be the King he is and not the King others were. He must rule  _as himself,_  as whatever and whoever he wishes to be. He is not the pale reflection of those who came before him; he does not need to style himself after them, nor claim their flaws." The memory of his grandfather's heavy golden armour upon his back flashed through his mind, and he brushed it aside with an almost contemptuous determination. "He is whole within himself, he is complete as he is. He is Aragorn, and Aragorn is more than enough."

Frerin pressed their shoulders together, and he could feel Dáin's steady, reassuring presence at his back.

"My King has words for you, Aragorn." And Gimli dutifully passed Thorin's message on. When he came to the end, Aragorn looked more shaken than ever.

"This is hard to believe, but I find it less confusing than your behaviour of late," he said, pale-faced, and he shook his head. "I thank you, Majesty, from my heart. But Gimli, of all answers you could have given me, this is one I never could have foreseen. Hearing the dead! I had thought that perhaps you were addled from more sun than a Dwarf can bear."

"Tch, nonsense," Gimli scoffed. "As though a little light could dazzle me."

"So speaks the one who dared to name three of the golden hairs of the Lady of Light as his desire," Legolas murmured.

"Hush your cheeky mouth, Elf," said Gimli without rancour. "Now, lad, have I sufficiently shocked you in return? Do we dare move you back into the Citadel?"

"If I go back, I must be the Lord Elfstone again. I will need to hold a council," Aragorn groaned, and he pushed himself up onto shaking legs. Gimli steadied him, and Legolas looped one of the Ranger's arms over his neck. "I need to tell Gandalf what I have done. Imrahil must be given clearer instruction about the Southrons that survived the battle. There are not enough tents, and not enough translators - and there are three or four Oliphaunts still living, if wounded, and they must be cared for as well… and Gandalf, yes, Gandalf must be told, we need his counsel, we must muster what forces we can… but not so many as to leave Gondor unprotected, for did not Éomer say that there was a second army in wait? There will be so few in number to begin with, a matter of thousands only…"

"Shh now, one foot before the other," Gimli coaxed, and together he and Legolas helped their friend over the court and back towards the great black-and-white marbled building.

"He's thinking like a King already. Poor bugger," said Dáin, with feeling.

Thorin grunted. "Aye, with all that it entails. Let us hope the crown does not weigh on him as heavily as it did you or I."

"This is why I never wanted your bloody job, Thorin."

"Yet you did it so very well, and it looked so fetching on you," Thorin shot back. The old teasing banter was easy to fall into.

"Had to do well, didn't I? You were literally haunting me," Dáin retorted, and then he smiled down at Frerin. "And of course, I didn't want to let my older cousins down."

Frerin's jaw dropped. "Older cousin?" he squeaked.

"Aye, well, you're always my big cousin, aren't you?" Dáin gave him a deferential little nod: a grizzled, heavy warrior in the prime of his life paying solemn respect to a half-grown adolescent with a half-shorn beard. "You're sixteen years my senior, after all. Some things do not change."

Frerin looked  _very_ young, and very pleased. "I am, aren't I?"

Thorin raised his eyebrows at Dáin, as if to say,  _I know what you are doing, you clever old coot._

Dáin gave him a barely-discernible wink.  _Trust me. It'll make him happy._

Thorin sighed, and turned his eyes up to the grey and churning sky.

"Big cousin," Frerin said happily to himself, and puffed out his chest.

"What's going on here?" came a new voice – and a small, bright bubble of air filled Thorin's chest. He turned to see Bilbo aiming a perplexed look at the assembled. "Who's… that's never the Dúnedan, is it?"

"If by that, you mean it is Aragorn, aye," he said. Frerin looked at him askance for a moment, and then he let out a silent 'ohhhh' of realisation.

"Hang on, what now, why's he talking like that," Dáin said in confusion, and Frerin scuttled over to their cousin and took his arm.

"I'll tell you, just be silent for a bit," he hissed, and began to whisper hurriedly into Dáin's ear. Thorin paid it no mind. All his attention was fixed on the Hobbit – the Hobbit who now held his Name in his soft, safe little hands.

"Hello Bilbo," he said, gentle and deep.

Bilbo's eyelids lowered at once, his cheeks turning pink. He cleared his throat. "Yes, er. Hello again." He tugged down the hem of his waistcoat, and then he said, "I still can't say it."

"I don't mind in the slightest," Thorin said, smiling. "I am pleased to see you."

"And I to see you, um. Dohyarzirikub."

"Nearly," Thorin said, and forced himself not to stand and smile like a simpleton at Bilbo, but to look back up at where Legolas was helping Aragorn make his way up the stairs to the great Hall. Gimli was bearing most of the Man's weight as the Elf guided them on. "Dohyarzirikhab. The last syllable. Khab."

"Khab," Bilbo echoed. "Dohyarzirikhab." Then he made one of his impatient little noises, his face full of irritation. "It is like trying to wash your mouth out with sand and grit, heavens…"

"I will tell our Maker as such, next time we speak." Thorin chuckled. "No doubt he will be offended that you think so little of the language he gifted us."

"I should think that such a description would be a compliment to him, and not an insult, or didn't he make the sand and the grit as well?" Bilbo said, and folded his arms. He looked rather pleased with his clever response… as well he might. "And the last syllable is the one that is giving me such terrible trouble."

"Perhaps now you will forgive Kíli for calling you 'Mr Boggins', hmm?"

"Never," Bilbo sniffed. A smile tugged at the edge of his lips, though.

"The Hobbit is  _here?"_  Thorin heard Dáin exclaim.

"That's your cousin, I remember him," Bilbo said, nodding at Dáin, and then he squinted up at the stairs. "Wait, and there's your lad Gimli."

 _My lad Gimli, he calls him,_  Thorin mused, and did not correct him.

"Why…" Bilbo frowned and peered closer, taking one or two steps after the departing party. Then he gasped in amazement and broke into a short run, saying, "no, no, no, that's never so! That can't be right!"

"Bilbo?" Thorin called after him, confused.

"They're holding hands?" Bilbo said, and spun around (Mahal save him, Hobbits were  _nimble!)_ in a trice to whirl back to Thorin, confusion writ all over him. "They're holding hands! But Legolas is an  _Elf_?"

Oh, that was all it was. "Aye, they are."

Bilbo gave him an absolutely incredulous look. "And Gimli is a Dwarf!"

"It appears that your eyesight is as keen as ever, Master Baggins," he replied, dry as dust.

"But…!" Bilbo waved his hands about in the air in wordless exasperation. "Why aren't you storming about, then?"

Thorin pretended innocence, and ignored the little harrumphs of laughter that were emerging from Dáin and Frerin some distance away. "A well-read Hobbit such as yourself surely knows that Elves have taken partners from other races before," he said, as mildly as he could.

"You! But – but," Bilbo spluttered and wagged a finger in his face, and then shook it towards the now-departed trio. "That…!"

"Quite." Letting his voice drop, Thorin said, "and of course, a Dwarf cannot choose again, once they have chosen."

Bilbo gaped at him. "I don't believe you," he declared flatly, and then threw his hands out to say, as though to the whole of Minas Tirith - "I don't  _believe_  you! You confuse the life out of me, you blasted, dratted…"

"Yes, yes, silly, confounded, preposterous old Dwarf, I know," Thorin murmured, and smiled at the bewildered expression on that dear, expressive face. "To be fair to you, I have had some time to come to terms with the notion. Gimli loves where he loves. His choice was not one I would have foreseen, nor one I easily accepted. I know Legolas better than I did ere I died, however, and he has proven himself over and again. He is worthy of the best of us. They have my blessing. And I would be the greatest of hypocrites were I to castigate Gimli for loving outside our race."

Bilbo, slack-jawed and cut off mid-rant, closed his mouth with a snap. One hairy foot scratched at the ground. "Oh, um. Well then. Right," he blustered. "Er. Good? Yes, I suppose that is good."

"And of course, my nephew helped me see things rather more clearly as well." Thorin glanced to the East, where the great clouds billowed and belched over the mountain peaks. "He watches over yours, even now. We should see how he fares."

Abruptly, Bilbo was all business again. "Good," he said, his eyes full of that Hobbitish steel that always seemed to rise when circumstances were the most dire. "Let's go see how Frodo-lad is doing, yes indeed."

"In a moment. I will tell the others." Thorin nodded to him, and then began to make his way back to Frerin and Dáin (who were watching him with matching expressions of amusement).

"Wait –  _Kíli_  helped you understand?" Bilbo called after him, his tone dubious.

"He did," Thorin replied without pausing, and then reached out to give both his brother and his cousin a light slap on the shoulder. "Stop it, you dreadful pair."

"As I recall, you weren't exactly sympathy itself when I was agonising over askin' Thira to wed," said Dáin archly, and Frerin sniggered.

"You look ridiculous, making sheep's-eyes at thin air."

Thorin took a deep breath and resigned himself to being the figure of their fun for a while. "How did I forget how many pranks you two were responsible for," he growled. "Wonderful."

Dáin and Frerin only grinned wider at that.

"We must check on Frodo and Sam now," Thorin said, ignoring their gleeful faces and wickedly-gleaming eyes (he would no doubt find a metal tray, chilled nearly ice-cold, in the foot of his blankets tonight, waiting for the touch of his bare feet). "Bilbo wishes to see his nephew, and Fíli and Kíli must be given a respite."

"The way he tells it, Nori is the one who needs a break from Fíli and Kíli," Dáin said, still grinning.

"Kíli helped you understand," Bilbo muttered, shaking his head. "Well, I'm glad at any rate. Glad you are finally able to see some good in the Elves at last. Though I confess I am still rather astonished that you're not vehemently opposed to Gimli walking out with the son of the Elvenking."

"Kíli has his own store of wisdom, unexpected though it is," said Thorin, feeling as though he ought to defend his namadul.

Frerin gave him a sceptical look. "That's not what Fíli says. Fíli calls him a twit. A  _lot_."

"Fíli has had to apologise for his brother's recklessness for nearly one hundred and fifty years," Dáin said with a shrug. "That'd do it."

"Fíli has the patience of the very stones, then."

"One word," Bilbo said succinctly. "Ponies."

"Let us go to them now."  _Before you all start joining forces in teasing me,_  Thorin did not add. He closed his eyes, and trusted the stars to gather them up and lead them into the dark.

The wind was the same, blowing icy across his face. That was all that remained the same, however, and Thorin opened his eyes again onto a scene from a nightmare. Black smoke belched into the air, and nothing grew as far as the eye could see. They stood upon a high rise, and the stones were melted into torturous shapes beneath his feet, as though Mahal's earth were struggling against the horror that had been forced onto its back. The plain stretched out before them, covered in bristling shapes of tents and the dull glint of weaponry. Every so often the glow of fires in deep pits could be seen, like dragon's mouths breathing into the night-dark sky.

And in the distance – not forty miles away – stood the slopes of the great fire-mountain itself, shouldering out of its own filthy spume, bulking massive and sullen and final. Behind it, half-hidden in the vast shadow and shrouded in its own cloak of menace, stood the vicious jagged tooth that was Barad-dûr.

Frerin froze, and the word "irrîn," fell soundlessly from his lips.

Dáin glanced down at him, and then threw a companionable arm around the young Dwarf's shoulders. "Hideous, ain't it?" he said, in a quiet but steady voice. "Ugliest damn thing I ever saw. His Monocular Nibs is no great architect, that's for sure and certain: the two of us could have done a better job of it when blindfolded and drunk. Look at how impractical it is! I hope all those useless spikes stick him right in his silly old Eye."

Frerin gave him a grateful look, and nodded.

"That's the last of it, save the Elven waybread. We've finished the food Faramir gave us," Thorin heard Sam say, and then he spotted them. They were half-covered by Sam's Lothlórien cloak, and clad in the foul leathers and armour of small tracking orcs.

Frodo's face was so thin; thinner than any hobbit's should ever be. His eyes, huge and blue, were bloodshot and haunted and staring, and bruises so deep they were nearly black were pressed into the skin beneath them. His lips were dry and cracking, and he mumbled inaudibly every so often.

Bilbo covered his gasp with trembling hands, and his eyes were utterly grief-stricken. "My lad," he whispered into his palms. His voice was heavy with guilt.

"Shh, now." Thorin wished he could embrace the Hobbit and give him comfort. "I know it is terrible. But he lives. He lives, and he has Sam still."

"What did I  _do_ to you," Bilbo breathed, and his little shoulders hunched against his sorrow.

"This was not your doing, Bilbo," Thorin said, and turned to look directly into the Hobbit's eyes. Bilbo met them reluctantly. "You are not responsible for the workings of the Ring. This is not. Your. Fault."

Bilbo's throat worked furiously as he stared up at Thorin. Then he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Here, Mister Frodo, take another sip," said Sam gently, and brought a water-skin up to Frodo's mouth. Frodo did not seem to notice when he swallowed the last of it, handing the empty skin back to Sam and falling back against the little rocky hollow they were hiding in.

"Aren't you going to have some?" he asked listlessly.

"Not so thirsty," Sam said in his plain, brave way, packing the skin away and smiling. "Leastways, it's better with you."

"Hello again, uncle, little uncle, cousin," said Fíli, and he gestured to the Hobbits. "They were nearly found, not half an hour ago. A nice little scuffle between an Orc tracker and a Morgul warrior. Still, they avoided it."

Thorin crossed to his nephew and pressed their foreheads together for a moment. "How fare you?"

Fíli smiled, though it was bleak. "Better than Frodo."

"I've had enough of this stinking desert," said Nori, and he shifted from foot to foot. "It's too open."

"Me too," Kíli grumbled, and he looked up at the slumbering fire atop Barad-dûr nervously. "I hate it when his Eye brushes past. Makes me feel… more than naked, if you take my meaning."

"Aye, I do." Thorin glanced back at Frodo and Sam. "How is the burden?"

"It calls and calls," Fíli grated. "Frodo said he sees it all the time now, like a ring of fire held before his waking eyes."

A punched-out noise came from Bilbo's direction.

"We should make another effort," Frodo said, without opening his eyes.

"Rest a moment more, dear Master," Sam said, and he gazed out across the plain with hopelessness written all over his honest face. "So many of 'em, and all as busy as a nest of insects in summertime. I don't like the look of things at all. Still, where's there's such a lot of folk there must be wells or water, not to mention food. And these are Men not Orcs, or my eyes are all wrong. Well, whatever they have to eat or drink, we can't get at it. There's no way down from this ridge save that road, and that's too open."

"Still, we shall have to try," said Frodo.

"I guess what it'll be like," said Sam glumly. "Where it's narrower the Orcs and Men will just be packed closer. You'll see, Mister Frodo."

"I dare say I shall, if we ever get so far," said Frodo and turned away.

Sam sighed and began to pack away their meagre things into the knapsack upon his back. He paused, and then asked hesitantly, "Begging your pardon, Mister Frodo, but have you any notion how far there is still to go?"

"No, not any clear notion, Sam,' Frodo answered, curled in upon himself with his arms hugging around his middle. "In Rivendell before I set out I was shown a map of Mordor that was made before the Enemy came back here; but I only remember it vaguely. I am afraid, Sam, that the burden will get very heavy, and I shall go still slower as we get nearer."

"That's just as I feared," Sam muttered, and he looked over the things in his knapsack, shaking his head. "Well, to say nothing of water, we've got to eat less, Mr. Frodo, or else move a bit quicker."

"I'll try and be a bit quicker, Sam," said Frodo, drawing a deep breath. "Come on then! Let's start another march!"

Pulling each other to their feet, they began to trudge on into the darkness. "And that's all they can do," Fili said, and his hands clenched and unclenched. "I feel so useless. All we can do is walk along beside them, hour by hour and mile by mile."

"That's all any of us can do," Thorin answered, and he cupped Fili's face. "Do not despair, namadul. They are not alone, though they do not know it. We can honour them thus."

"Much good it does them," Nori muttered, and then silence fell as on into the Black Land they stumbled.

Hour after hour passed, and the path was remorseless. Frodo staggered along, and leaned on Sam often. Thorin and his companions said nothing as they matched them step for step, and deep in his heart Thorin cried out at the injustice of this Quest and at what it had done to these two peaceful, gentle, merry creatures.

The look on Bilbo's face was too terrible to bear.

When the sun's smothered glow had nearly disappeared behind the western mountains to their backs, something changed at last. "Wait a moment now," said Sam unexpectedly, putting a hand against Frodo's chest and frowning out at the spreading armies. "Could only be the darkness playing a trick on me, but could it be that they are moving?"

At that moment a horn rang out, answered by others that rang all about the huge barren valley. Frodo swayed a little, the noise seeming to buffet him about.

"Well, there's a bit of luck," Sam said, astonished, and hoisted his pack higher upon his back. "Let's make use of it!"

"Aye, they are indeed moving North," said Dáin, and he turned to Thorin with a hard grin on his lips. "Aragorn's feint worked. His Nibs is running scared, and he's going to throw it all at the Gates."

"It has not worked yet, and Aragorn has not even mustered his forces," Thorin said, as the many camps began to fold up and long, glittering, clanking lines made entirely of soldiers began to wend their way over the plains, like armoured snakes.

"Aragorn did this?" asked Kíli, and he stood a bit straighter. "Well, thank Mahal. I didn't think they were ever going to have a chance of getting through that thicket of steel."

"Let's hope they were in too much of a hurry to take all their food with 'em," Nori added.

After another hour of carefully picking their way through the Morgai, Sam finally cursed. "There's nothing else for it, Mister Frodo," he said. "We have to take the road we saw from up above. There's no way down either east or west, and back leads us straight into that hornet's nest - only now we've poked it with a stick."

Frodo stared ahead, panting. Each breath rocked his little body.

Worry crossed Sam's brow, and he took Frodo's hand. "Mister Frodo? Mister Frodo, my dear?" he said, as gentle as could be. "We must take the road. We must take it and chance our luck, if there is any luck in Mordor. We might as well give ourselves up as wander about any more, or try to go back. Our food won't last. We've got to make a dash for it!"

"All right, Sam," said Frodo, in a dull voice that he produced with some effort. "Lead me! As long as you've got any hope left. Mine is gone. But I can't dash, Sam. I'll just plod along after you."

"Before you start any more plodding, you need sleep and food, Mr. Frodo. Come and take what you can get of them!"

Settling Frodo down again by the road's mouth, half-hidden by a ridge, Sam fed him a wafer of their precious waybread, and made a pillow of his elven cloak. Frodo ate mechanically, and when he was done he slid into a restless, twitching sleep.

  
  
Sam, Fili and Thorin, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/129202829169/settling-frodo-down-again-by-the-roads-mouth)  


When he was sure his Master was asleep, Sam stood and looked down at him with a melancholy set to his lips. "Well, here goes, Master!' Sam muttered to himself. "I'll have to leave you for a bit and trust to luck. Water we must have, or we'll get no further."

"Sam," said Fíli, his jaw rippling, "has barely eaten in the last two days. He keeps giving his every morsel to Frodo."

Thorin did not dare look towards Bilbo. "Lion of the Shire," he murmured, and it was all so  _unfair._

Sam crept out from their little hollow, and flitted from stone to stone with a hobbit's uncanny silence and speed. No Dwarf could hope to follow him, not even ghostly ones. Bilbo turned to Thorin, and his eyes asked the question. Thorin nodded, and Bilbo disappeared after the gardener, swift and nimble and sure-footed as of old.

Thorin watched him go: a bright spot of russet and green and gold amidst the dry black dust of Mordor, and tried to ignore the little part of himself that rejoiced at just how easy it was to fall into their old partnership: to know the direction of each other's thoughts, to follow without question each other's lead.

"Thorin!" Frerin cried out, bringing his attention back to Frodo.

His brother's young eyes had spotted a skulking shape, splay-handed and whispering, creeping over the rocks by Frodo's hiding place. "Damn!" he cursed, and looked wildly after the direction Bilbo and Sam had disappeared. "They're too far away!"

"Escaped, did they," hissed Gollum, and his eyes were glowing with the fervour of the obsessed. "Well, we'll fix that, won't we precious?  _Gollum, Gollum!"_

The creature's sibilant voice was a foul caress against their ears, and Thorin shuddered with revulsion. "Go after them, we need Sam!" he snapped to Frerin and Kíli, who took off running at once.

"Ah - they're the fastest, they've the best chance," Dáin said, staring at Gollum. "That…"

"Was once a Hobbit," Thorin finished. "Or something very like one."

" _That_  is what the Ring can do," added Fíli, and true hate shone in his face.

"Easy," Thorin said to him. Fíli's eyes flicked up to his.

"I have now watched Frodo Baggins wrestle with that thing for weeks upon weeks, seen it eat him alive from the inside-out," he said, low and vicious. "I have never hated anything so much as that little circle of gold."

"It's nearly on him," said Nori sharply, bringing them back to the moment.

Gollum's hands moved, soft and strong and grasping, over the tortured stone as he crept ever closer to the fitfully-slumbering Frodo. All the while, his muttering never ceased. "They calls poor Sméagol  _sneak,_ they does, and then they go ssssneaking about in places they shouldn't be! O very nice, very fair, how very just, O yes Precious! Filthy hobbitses, they mustn't… they mustn't… and the fat one turns his nasssty eyes away, carries off the Elfs-sword and the Elfs-light and leaves the Masssster all alone! Now is the time, my precious, my love! Yesss, now!"

"Garn, get away!" came the shout of outrage, and Sam came trudging back with Sting glowing blue in his hands. "Get you gone, you slinker!"

Gollum gave a short cry of terror, and he was gone in a trice, web-toed feet disappearing over the ridge-line.

"Just in time," sighed Kíli, and he rubbed at his face. "He has to stop cutting it so fine."

"Well, luck did not let me down," said Sam, peering after the place where Gollum had vanished. "Isn't it enough to have orcs by the thousand without that stinking villain coming nosing round?" He fisted his hands and fairly stomped back to where Frodo lay, and sat down beside him with a pugnacious expression on his face.

"Did he find water?" Thorin asked Frerin, and he nodded.

"Brackish, smelly water, aye. But it's drinkable, he tried a bit. It's the best they're going to get around here, I'll wager."

Bilbo was wide-eyed and shaking with rage as he stared at the ridge-line. He seemed unable to find any words to put to his fury, and his breath was coming fast and rough through his nose.

"This Quest is not over," Thorin said, as quietly as he could. "Gandalf once said to Frodo that yours was the pity that may one day rule the fate of many. Do not repent of saving a life, Bilbo – even that one. He's a wretch and a monster, but you know that he was not always so."

Bilbo blinked, and then he shuddered. "Oh, blast it, tear it, curse it all," he moaned, and then his voice raised to nearly a shout. "Of  _course_  I know! I saw that when I spared him: he looked the spitting image of an old, withered Hobbit, sad and alone… and I have carried that evil thing for how long, Thorin Oakenshield, you cannot tell me a  _single dratted thing_  about what it does to a heart, what it does to a mind and body! Of course I pitied him! I still do! But he will  _kill Frodo,_ he means to kill my brave boy…" his hands fisted in his hair, and he began to weep. "How have you done this? Watched all this horror and sorrow and madness, unable to prevent it, for so  _long_?"

Thorin let the storm of grief and horror and rage pass over him – had he not felt as much? Then he crossed to where Bilbo panted and shook, feeling the stares of the others upon his back. His hand lifted, fingers hovering over Bilbo's tawny hair. "I already told you that, Idùzhib," he said sombrely. "It was for you."

Bilbo gazed up at him with tear-wet cheeks, his mouth slack and open.

And then he vanished.

Frerin's little hand crept up to Thorin's shoulder and settled there. In the near distance came the sound of hundreds of booted feet, marching closer and closer.

...

 

  
  
It was for you, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/128929539620/fishfingersandscarves-thorin-let-the-storm-of)  


_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Khulel – Peace of peace  
> Abbad – I am here  
> Zabadâl belkul – Mighty Leader  
> Melhekhel – King of All Kings  
> Alrísul – child of Alrís  
> Namadul – sister's son  
> Haban - Gem  
> Mizim - Jewel  
> Ghivashelê – My treasure of all treasures  
> Amad - mother  
> Irrîn – horror-place  
> Bizarûnh – Dale-Men  
> Idùzhib - diamond
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Mellon nín – My Friend  
> Meleth nín – my Love  
> Dúnedan – "Man of the West", i.e. Numenorean – this is what Bilbo calls Aragorn in the chapter "the Council of Elrond".
> 
> ...
> 
> Morgai – an eastern ridge in the Ephel Duath, the mountains that form a fence around Mordor.
> 
> Dwerís – is a nonbinary Dwarrow who goes by she/her pronouns. The green in her beard is a reference to this, and also an homage to Dwalin's own blue beard in the books.
> 
> Genild & Beri – more on these two lovely Dwarrowdams can be read at [my tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/116375086413/could-you-please-tell-us-more-about-jeri-their)
> 
> ...
> 
> Some lines have been taken from the chapter, "The Land of Shadow." Some references have been made to the chapter, "The Last Debate" (in particular, Legolas and Gimli's visit to Merry and Pippin, and their walk through Minas Tirith) and to the Appendices.
> 
> I have chosen to use the movie timeline rather than the book timeline regarding Aragorn's use of the Palantir (in the books, he uses the Palantir before he attempts the Paths of the Dead).
> 
> ...
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Your kind words keep me going <3**


	40. Chapter Forty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year to everybody! I hope you had a peaceful and safe holiday, and all my love goes out to you for a happy and wonderful 2016!
> 
> I wrote a new side fic for The Appendices, and the wondrous Sansukh Ensemble has podficced it! You can find the [fic here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5399366), and the [podfic here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5578420) Enjoy!
> 
> As always, I can be found nerding it up on [my tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/), as can the [mighty Sansukh Masterpost of all art, music, fiction, podfic and more!](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sansukh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost)
> 
> Mouse-over text has been added! Hover your cursor over the words for a translation!
> 
> Okay, won't make you wait any longer. Here we go, gird your loins :)

Ori stared at the massive sheet of parchment. It was covered in crossings-out, and small notes were scattered all through the margins in an assortment of different hands. He could just make out the blocky script of Thrór, the cramped chicken-scratch that was Óin, and Frís' graceful loops. All in all, it was an unrecognisable, unreadable mess. A hot, sinking feeling began somewhere in his belly.

With a sudden growl, he reached out and tore the schedule from the forge-door, leaving scraps pinned underneath the nails that had kept it in place. "All that… all that… URGH, and they're not even where – Thorin isn't even – oh, Durin save us, _really?"_

Bifur, standing by his side, began to back away carefully. Ori ignored him, and spent a satisfying few moments ripping his painstaking work to shreds.

"Ghivashelê?" Bifur said - rather nervously.

"I'm going to stick this stupid thing up someone's jacksie," Ori huffed, and shook the torn scraps in his fist. Then he spun on one heel and began to stalk towards the Chamber of Sansûkhul. "Come on!"

"Oh, mahumb," Bifur sighed, and then took off after the still-muttering shape of his usually rather peacable little love. "Ori! Wait!"

* * *

"This will not end well," said Balin in a flat voice, staring at the shape of the two nobles of Dale huddled in a corner of the marketplace together, whispering ferociously.

"Fear you're right about that," sighed Thrór, and his hand rested on Balin's shoulder in awkward reassurance. "But what can be done with them?"

"Perhaps the Orcs would find them diverting," Balin grunted, and he eyed the two pompous, self-important idiots with intense dislike.

"Perhaps the Orcs would enjoy their companionship," Hrera added archly. "Dáin just rid the world of their leader: don't go providing them with another."

The subjects of their discussion then seemed to come to some sort of agreement. The furious whispering ceased, and with a nod of his head and a cruel grin Lord Krummett bowed over Inorna's hand, and strode away. She watched him with a tragic air of wounded delicacy, even as her eyes glittered in faint satisfaction. Then she too turned on her heel and scurried back into the shadows.

"I don't like it," Balin grumbled. "They're raising unrest amongst the Dale-folk, spreading all sorts of vile rumours. We haven't been storing food secretly, and they know it!"

"The Dale-folk are too wise to fall for such obvious falsehoods," Hrera said. "And the Lady Selga is still part of the committee. Their people trust her, even if they do not trust ours."

Balin harrumped into his beard, chewing on his lip. "I still don't like it. And they're paying too much attention to the committee… especially Dori."

"Well, they're not likely to get past Beri and Genild, no matter how much skulking about they do." Thrór scratched at his cheek for a moment, before he turned to the fourth member of their little party. "Víli, lad, would you go listen to what people are saying? You've always been better at taking the pulse of the populace."

Víli wrinkled his nose. "Rather be getting up to the Council chambers to see how Dís is doing. It's no fun sitting in a pub when your hands pass right through the tankard."

"I will personally bring you a barrel of ale if you take a turn about the market with your ears open," Balin said, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Víli. "We're sitting on a sealed powder-keg, and these two have just knocked over a lamp. We need to know if the Dale-folk believe these lies, and we need to know if the Elves and Dwarves feel any tension or resentment because of it."

Víli sighed and looked up at the emerald-studded roof. "It's because I'm common as muck, ain't it?"

"It's because I don't know what to listen for, Thrór even less so, and Balin would be over-analysing everything, searching for politics and angles and interests until it all fell apart in his hands," said Hrera sharply. "And also because yes, you are a very fine Dwarf, Víli, and my very favourite grandson-in-law… who also happens to be as common as muck."

Víli grinned at her. "Thanking you kindly, Majesty."

She gave him a tight smile in return. The lines of worry did not smooth out. "Pray don't mention it. Now scoot."

"Yes, ma'am." Víli sketched a little bow, and then disappeared into the ringing marketplace.

* * *

"Seven thousands only," came Gimli's grumble as Thorin, Dáin, Frerin and Óin shouldered away the clinging starlight of Gimlîn-zâram. Their night had been subdued in the Halls. Every Dwarf who was not watching had gathered in Thrór's workshop – not to plan or speak, but simply to sit in silence together. The tension was strung too tightly for speech, and it seemed that a single word might snap it altogether. "How in Durin's blessed name are we to assault the Black Land with just seven thousand warriors? It's madness."

"It would be, if this were truly an assault," came Legolas' voice. Thorin squinted as the light faded, and he was able to make out the shapes of riders and infantry, all jangling together in the bleached mid-morning light. "But you know as well as I that this is a rash gamble."

"Well, I've been known to gamble on occasion, I suppose," sighed Gimli. After a moment, Thorin was able to make out the shape of his star. Gimli and the Elf were on foot rather than riding, and Pippin was skipping along on swift feet by their side. Behind them came the tall grey-eyed spears that were the sons of Elrond, their leaflike armour glinting dully.

Gimli laughed suddenly. "Did I ever tell you about my friend Nori? He ran every book in Erebor, an' a few that weren't so honest either. He even bet on me a few times, and I like to think I made him more money than I cost him!"

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "Another of your father's company?"

"Aye." Gimli glanced back above the rows and rows of soldiers to where Minas Tirith lay, some miles away. "I would give much to have them by my side, considering our errand."

"You have some of them," Thorin said, low and soft. Gimli smiled.

"Idmi, Melhekhel."

Legolas' eyes flicked downwards, and then he imperceptibly inclined his head. "King Thorin has returned, I gather," he murmured.

"Aye, he's here, along with one or two others. So do I get to join the Company at long last, my King? Ah, but this is a far cry from the days when I was too raw and green to come upon a great journey to face a deadly foe."

"You were sixty-two, and never a more hot-headed and brash lad ever walked through Ered Luin," Óin grumbled. "Would have gotten yourself stepped on by a troll before we'd reached the Misty Mountains – or even picked a fight with Beorn."

"Peace, uncle. I am not upset!" Gimli turned away from Minas Tirith, and blew out a breath that made his shoulders slump a little. "Just remembering."

"That's a worry," whispered Frerin. "Does that mean… I mean, if he's reminiscing…"

Dáin hushed him, although his shrewd blue eyes darted between Gimli and Thorin.

"Well, I know who _is_ upset, and that's Merry," said Pippin. He had to take three strides to every one of Legolas', and he fairly skipped along as they went. "Aragorn and Gandalf said that he can't come. He's fit to be tied!"

"Neither should he!" said Legolas. "He has already done a mighty deed, and it has cost him dearly despite his brave face. He needs to rest, and grow strong and well again. The Black Breath is a terrible thing to endure."

"That's exactly what I said!" said Pippin with a decisive little nod. "And so did Aragorn. Besides, I've got to catch up to him now. I can't have the Brandybucks hogging all the limelight when we get home! They'll be insufferable braggarts, and I can't have that, not at all. I've got to uphold the pride of Great Smials of Tuckborough, I do."

Gimli chuckled, and Legolas laughed aloud. Then Legolas sobered in a flash, sombre just as quickly as he had been laughing. "When we get home," he repeated slowly, and he cast his eyes down.

Gimli touched the back of Legolas' hand with a cautious finger. "Legolas? Lad?"

"No, I do not hear the gulls, Gimli," Legolas said, and he was silent for a pensive moment. Then he said, "Tell me, what will you do when you get home?"

"When I get…" Gimli's jaw dropped open. Pain entered his dark eyes, and he shook his shaggy head. "Âzyungelê, there's not much chance that…"

"Pretend," Legolas said, short and cold. "Pretend, for me, for my sake."

Gimli fell quiet, and then he tipped back his chin to look up at the forbidding shapes of the Mountains of Mordor, growing ever and ever closer. "Well," he began, his tone thoughtful and slow, "first I will go to my family. I shall greet them, and we will at last be together after this long terrible year. My father will shout and laugh and weep, and my mother will immediately fall to scolding all of us indiscriminately. You too," he added, and touched Legolas' hand again – warm and reassuring.

Legolas' lips curved, and his expression softened slightly as he returned Gimli's secretive smile. "I look forward to meeting your mother."

Gimli snorted softly. "She will be horrified at us, at how spare I have grown. She'll feed us for a week solid before she's satisfied! My nephew will holler and dance and clamber over us, and perhaps I will at last confound my sister enough to stay her sharp tongue."

"And then what?" Legolas turned his hand so that he grasped Gimli's thick fingers.

"Then I will see my new King, and I will tell my tale," Gimli said, "and perhaps we would feast. I will visit Dwalin and Dori, and show them the book written in Ori's hand, and tell them what we found in Khazad-dûm…" Gimli broke off and squeezed Legolas' hand. Though his touch remained gentle, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously, as though he were already readying for a fight. "I will tell them all about you, and everyone will accept us with open arms and open hearts. They will love you, just as much as I. Wait and see."

"An' on that day, I'll be giving Thranduil a big ol' wet kiss on the lips, will I?" Óin muttered.

"We will go home," Legolas said, and he stared at the mountains ahead with something like anger in his eyes. "And we shall be together."

"Aye, every day," Gimli promised. "Every day. And we shall go to the Glittering Caves beneath Helm's Deep and I shall show you how rocks grow and bloom just as beautifully as flowers in a garden; if not more, for their flowering takes many thousands of years. And you shall introduce me to your father and brothers, and they shall congratulate you for your excellent taste in husbands."

"Yes," whispered Legolas. "They will see you as I do. We will go to Fangorn and walk amongst trees so ancient that I feel as young as the new day. I will teach you how to listen to them…"

"That's the idea, Kurdulê," Gimli said, and he brought Legolas' hand up to his lips to kiss it.

Then he paused as realisation stole over his face, and his eyes flicked about. "Uh."

Pippin's ears were red, and his eyes were boggling. "So, you're…" he said in a strangled voice.

The only sign of Legolas' nervousness was a certain whitening of his knuckles where he gripped Gimli's hand. Otherwise he appeared unruffled as he strode along through the torn-up fields of the Pelennor.

"Aye," Gimli said, as though daring Pippin to comment. He also gave Elladan and Elrohir a cautious look. "That's the way of it."

"Oh," said Pippin, and he seemed very young in that moment, blinking in stupefaction. Then a broad grin began to spread over his face. "Wait, _you're –_ oh, glory and trumpets, as Sam would say! Well, congratulations to the both of you!"

"You are the second to offer your good wishes," said Legolas, and he seemed puzzled at Pippin's reaction. "We were not sure if you would approve."

"Approve? Of course I approve!" Pippin tucked his thumbs into the straps of his pack and beamed at them proudly. "I'm a _Took,_ my dear fellows, not some stuffy Goodbody or prim Proudfoot, gossiping away like they do up in Budgeford! Scandal has been my lot ever since I was born: ask Merry if you've any doubts. And you're missing the truly important thing here, besides."

"Aye?"

Pippin rubbed his hands together. "Weddings always have the best dancing and the best food! So, now that's clear, when can we begin planning? I think you should hold it as soon as you can, before we all leave Minas Tirith. Otherwise how are we all to attend?"

Gimli snorted loudly. "That'd set the cat amongst the ravens, an' no mistake!"

"My father would never let me hear the end of it," Legolas said, but his smile was pleased, if still a little confused.

Pippin made a rude noise. "And he's so likely to let it slide as it is?"

"How is the Hobbit the only one makin' any sense?" Óin asked the air.

"Well, you'll do as you see fit, of course," Pippin continued, and he gave a shrug. "But your father's going to be livid no matter what you do, so my advice, for what it's worth, is to ignore all the shouting and do what makes you happy. That's what has always worked for me, anyway."

"That explains a great deal, Little Bullroarer," said Thorin, repressing a smile.

Gimli and Legolas shared a glance, and then Gimli said, "there is some wisdom in what you say…"

Pippin gave a satisfied little harrumph. "Naturally."

"…but I'm sure I'd have my braids pulled from my head." Gimli scratched at his chin. "Or my beard plucked out hair by hair."

"And I," Legolas glanced back at the Peredhel twins, "I am not yet certain that I shall henceforth be welcome in my father's halls. I cannot speak for all the realms of the Elves, of course…"

Mildly, Elladan said, as though speaking to the air, "though much has been made of our mixed heritage, it often seems to escape the notice of others that our own sister will join with one of mortal blood."

"And we hold no opposition to the match, nor would any of our people," added Elrohir. Then his usually-stern face wrinkled a little. "Though I believe you would test even my father's incredulity, were you to seek sanctuary in Imladris. And he has seen many things."

"Many, many, _many_ things," added Elladan.

Pippin puffed himself up importantly. "Now, there's the size and shape of it, right enough. Whatever you do, you're likely to shock the sense out of everyone you meet. You're a very new thing indeed, in case that's somehow slipped your minds amidst all this terribly sad talk of _what you'll do,_ and so forth. If you came to the Shire you'd surpass Mr. Bilbo as the most peculiar thing that has been seen in centuries, and that's a fact."

"Kind of you to say," Gimli said through slightly gritted teeth. Dáin barked out a laugh.

"I like these Hobbits, don't you?" he said expansively. "My sort o' folk."

"Not that new," Legolas said, and he gripped Gimli's hand more tightly. "There was another. My father scorned their love, and banished her from his realm."

"I do not believe your father would send you away, Thranduillion," said Elladan. "He loves you too dearly, and Thranduil holds fast to what he loves."

"My father is proud," said Legolas. "And he has no love for Dwarves."

"Ah, but is his pride greater than his love for you?" said Elrohir, and he shook his head. "Take heart! For we face a greater peril than Thranduil's wrath, and all talk of tomorrows is but smoke on the wind."

"Cheerful," Frerin said sourly. "If that's their idea of comfort, it leaves a little to be desired."

"Smoke on the wind's a fine idea," Gimli grumbled. "When do we stop?"

Thorin let the Elf-Lord's words roll around in his mind. "But there is this: Gimli and Legolas will not be rejected by all Elvenkind," he said, and then he growled and rubbed at his brow. _I am heartily sick of revising my opinion of the bloody, bloody tree-shaggers. Damn it all._

Still, it was good that Legolas would not be parted from his people. But how to manage Thranduil, the pale spider of Mirkwood, who would stand by and watch Dwarves starve but would feed Men without a qualm?

Pippin readjusted his little sword-belt, and then clapped his hands together. "Now, if we could go back to matters of true importance, please: what do you plan to serve at the wedding? Because, as your friend, I would be entirely remiss if I didn't make you my grandmother's recipe for stuffed mushrooms in butter with sage and basil."

Gimli and Legolas shared a glance, and hurriedly muffled their laughter.

* * *

Víli watched with rising worry and unhappiness as Inorna whispered into a rather harassed-looking Dale-man's ear. She tapped her nose pointedly and scurried away with her skirts held high. The Dale-man wrinkled his nose and shook his head in disgust, but kept on moving barrels to the great moving platforms that rose all the way to the height of the battlements.

"No joy there, Inorna," Víli said, and grinned to himself as he moved on.

He briefly stepped into Nori's old tavern, which was largely empty. The walls rattled with the impact of boulders as the catapults began their work once more. Víli tugged at his moustache braids, and wondered if the Orcs and Easterlings had finally managed to restore order after the death of Dâgalûr.

Probably not, he decided, and bent to eavesdrop on a pair of gossiping old Dale-women. "Doubt there's all this hidden food they're talking of," said one scornfully. "They'd only be seen with it later on an' they know it, and that'd lead to all sorts of trouble, so why go to all the effort of organising the silos an' the collections in the first place?"

"Makes no sense, t' my mind," said the other, nodding with pursed lips and taking a sip of her watery tea. "The Dwarves of the Mountain have been as good as their word for as long as I can remember, ever since I was a wee thing. A few spiteful cats won't change facts!"

Víli let out a sigh of relief, and began to trudge back through the subdued halls of Erebor. The majority were still defending the walls or working in the foundries, it appeared, and most of the corridors were deserted. A snatch of conversation caught his ear as he passed the vaulted kitchen-entrance, and he peered around the corner for a closer look.

"…not have roast pig?" came Krummett's wheedling voice. "We've all seen them wandering around, fat as butter and bold as brass! That's proof of what I'm saying, right there. There's food, and lots of it, and the Dwarves are withholding our share! Can we stand for such selfishness? Have the people of Dale no pride?"

"I don't know," said the woman uncertainly. "I've been helping in the kitchens, an' folk with food to spare don't make naught but soup for nine days running. They make it because it lasts, it's filling, and it don't need that many ingredients…"

Krummett glared at her. "The pigs!" he hissed, his eyes popping. "Will you ignore such blatant evidence?"

"Those pigs ain't food, from what Barur Stonebelly tells me." She wiped her hands on her apron, and shook her head. "I'm not about to break the laws of hospitality by killing my host's pets without a by-your-leave. I'll bid you good day, thank you," she said primly, and disappeared into the steamy kitchen door.

Krummett growled in impotent fury, and he stalked away with a flush staining his neck.

"Dunghill rat," Víli muttered at his back, feeling a new surge of dislike for the unpleasant fellow. Then he put the oily Dale nobleman from his mind and began to climb towards the upper levels.

"…hanging around my quarters like a foul stench," Dori's voice floated from within a nearby Guild meeting-room. Víli nearly walked right by before his brain caught up with his ears. He quickly checked his stride and poked his head through the entry.

Seated behind a table that was covered in a heavy, brass-bound book, Glóin was massaging his temples, a harried look on his face. Surrounding the table were Dori, Mizim, the Lady Selga and the Elf Captain Merilin. "Not sure how to fix that one," Glóin said regretfully, and Dori grumbled to himself about vile little busybodies. "Although it probably ain't diplomatic of me to suggest a good solid punch."

"I'd be happy to oblige," Dori said shortly.

"If you feel it might cause an incident, perhaps I might volunteer," said the Lady Selga. Merilin's dark eyes tilted up at her, glinting with a flash of humour.

"I'd like to see that," she said, low.

  
  
Merilin and Selga, by [peggaboo](http://peggaboo-draws.tumblr.com/post/137475551798/reads-chapter-40-of-sansukh-sees-this-post)  


"You may yet get the chance," said Glóin gloomily, and he traced a finger down a column in his great book, finding and tapping at the final figure. "There's not enough collected to last us through the week as things stand. I fear we've grossly overestimated our supplies. We're on the bones of our arses, lads."

"You have copies of this information?" said Merilin, her demeanour snapping from admiration to business as she looked from Selga to Glóin.

The old Dwarf looked incredibly indignant. "I am a _banker._ I have _three_ copies of this information, an' one copy is lodged with a reputable person of great secrecy."

It was Selga's turn to be amused, as Merilin said, "my sincere apologies, Master Glóin."

"Do I have _copies_ ," Glóin huffed, his hackles settling as Mizim patted his hand absently.

"You're missing the point, the lot of you," she said, and she leaned forward to look at the ledger again, before slumping back. "When we run out of food, what do you think our two spiteful little gossip-mongers will do?"

Dori groaned in realisation. "Accuse us of hoarding it, naturally. And they'll probably never stop their infernal spying on my rooms."

"And when everyone's belts start to get a little looser, that's when they're likely to find a few more sympathetic ears," Selga said.

"Why are they bothering _you_ , though?" Merilin said bluntly to Dori, who made a sound of helpless frustration. "You are the High Guildmaster and Quartermaster of Erebor, your reputation is beyond reproach…"

Glóin's eyes widened. "An' you _are_ the High Guildmaster, and the Quartermaster of the armies, and you live alone, an' you're sitting on a goldmine of information that they could exploit."

Dori paled at once. "That's…"

"Not beyond them," said Selga, her voice flat. She stood and straightened her dress with a hard yank. "They're known for their vicious business practices, back home. They wouldn't stop at just rumour and lies."

"You think they'd break into my rooms?"

"I think they'd try," said Selga, and she swept away from the table with quick, angry strides. "These two! They have obstructed us at every turn. Now they claw at power and play foolish games! There is a _war_ on!"

"They evidently don't know enough about you if they think you're an easy mark," Mizim said to Dori, who looked absolutely furious.

"Well, Dori's not as he seems, is he?" Glóin said, and he leaned back in his chair and set his reading-spectacles atop his white head. "I suspect they'll regret targeting the fussy, genteel bureaucrat when they discover he's got a right hook like an iron bar."

"Fussy!?" Dori spluttered, and Glóin shrugged.

"Known you too long to speak around the point, gamil bâhûn."

Dori glared at him, before conceding the point with a grumble.

"What information has been kept in your rooms, Master Dori?" said Merilin, leaning in and tilting her head, those dark Elven eyes unblinking.

"Weapons inventory," he sighed, and tugged at the narrow plait in his beard. "Guild agreements. And unfortunately, the location of the food-stores." When an outcry greeted this news, Dori bristled defensively. "How in Mahal's name was I meant to predict _this?_ And someone has to be across Beri and Genild's roster!"

"Ahh, damn," Glóin groaned. "Stop bein' so bloody competent, Dori, and let someone else do something for once."

"I am swiftest, I shall go to your rooms to see if they have been disturbed," Merilin said, straightening. Her red cloak swished around her calves as she turned and strode for the door.

Another impact sounded against the mountainside like the sounding of a massive drum, and Selga winced. "Hurry, captain," she urged the Elf.

Merilin paused mid-stride, and her head nodded once. Then she was gone in a flurry of cloak and long black hair.

  
  
Selga and Merilin, by [courtugger](http://courtugger.tumblr.com/post/137478261862/determamfidd-courtugger-sudden-thing-i-now)  


Dori squared his shoulders and turned back to Glóin and Mizim. "Could I trouble you for a weapon, old friend?" he said in the most controlled voice Víli had ever heard.

Glóin bared his teeth in a ferocious grin, and nodded to the wall. Dori did not answer, but strode directly to the weapons-rack hanging there. His hand hovered over a flail for a moment, before it settled upon a massive, heavy hammer.

Lifting it without a single sign of effort, he turned back to Glóin, Mizim and Selga, and gave them a courteous nod. "Now, if you'll excuse me…?"

"By all means, Dori dear," Mizim said, just as genteel.

"Hand them their arses," Glóin added.

Dori bowed perfunctorily to Selga, then he snarled and charged after Merilin, his eyes afire with outrage.

Víli bit down on the choicest swear-words he knew, and closed his eyes and let the star-pool shift him onward. Thrór needed to know.

* * *

"How is he still _standing?"_ Kíli wondered aloud, his tone made up of equal parts despair and amazement.

Fíli had no idea, but he watched Frodo stagger on as the Orc-driver flicked the whip again and again at the marching legs of the soldiers. The Hobbit didn't even seem to feel the blows, as though he was deadened to the living world already – or as though his inner self was already brimful with pain, and so the lick of the whip made no difference at all.

And all the while, the Ring called.

"This is an agony," he said, and he took another step and another, forcing himself to keep pace with Sam and Frodo. When he had taken on this duty, he had not expected such horrors. He had not known how hard it was to be a witness to such suffering, unable to help. Too many times he had wanted to turn away, to allow the starlight to take him from the sight of Frodo's pallid face, his rasping breath, his lifeless eyes.

No. This bravery – this _sacrifice –_ deserved a witness. Frodo and Sam would not be alone, and he would honour them. If Fíli had his way, the whole of creation would honour them.

Frodo stumbled, and Sam propped him up. "Where there's a whip, there's a will, my slugs!" roared the orc-driver, and Fíli's hackles rose as the other orcs jeered.

"That bloke needs an appointment with my knives," muttered Nori. He was taking the lead, his sharp eyes scanning the thick-clustered plain ahead. Fíli stayed close by Frodo's right side, and Kíli was flanking Sam on the left.

"I'm feeling the need for a bow in my hand, for some reason," Kíli agreed, scowling darkly at the driver.

Mordor seemed completely endless, the march unendurable. Somehow the Hobbits lurched and staggered on, feet dragging in the dust. Time dripped like slowly melting ice. The sun ran in its furrow, huge and red and sullen behind the perpetually stinking, smoke-filled sky.

"They've got to stop sometime," said Nori. His sly, merry face was grim and creased, and all three of them had awful bruises beneath their eyes. "An army only ever marches as slow as its slowest soldier – an' that ain't even taking into account the supply wagons or the like. Armies are _slow,_ and there's always plenty of confusion: a nice little opportunity to slip away, I'm hoping."

"Hoping," Fíli repeated, and he took another step, and another. Sometimes it seemed to him that all he did was walk along beside Frodo, as ineffective and useless as a shield of glass.

"What's that ahead! Nori?" Kíli said suddenly, breaking the numbing monotony. Nori peered through the thick bodies of the marching Orcs, and then he hissed between his teeth.

"Crossroads – and someone's coming! Now's their chance!"

Indeed, at that moment a new group of Uruks, running at a jingling trot, slammed into their column. Everything was thrown into disarray, with every Orc jostling and punching and spitting at the next. "Mr. Frodo!" Sam whispered, and tugged at the listless Frodo. "Come on, now: down over that bank, they won't see us from over that high kerb. But it's got to be now!"

Frodo shook himself, and then the two Hobbits crawled out of the confusion, with Orcs tripping over them and cursing all the way. Then they clambered over the edge of the road, and lay still, covered in their Elven cloaks, as the two columns sorted themselves out with much shouting and snarling.

"Did any of them notice?" Fíli asked Nori in an undertone.

"Nah, none of them saw a thing. Too busy trying to stick the next fellow in the eye," Nori snorted. "Friendly lot, ain't they? I get the feeling that if it weren't for Sauron's influence, the Orcs'd put themselves out o' business in a couple of decades."

"If only we were so lucky." Fíli said, and he gestured to where Sam was gently urging Frodo to crawl a little way further from the road. "If only they were."

"He still has such hope in him," said Kíli, softly. "Sam, I mean."

Fíli regarded his brother for a moment, and then turned back to the Hobbits. Frodo had stirred himself again at Sam's coaxing, and was making his way inch by inch over the jagged rock. "I'm glad one of them does, at any rate," he said to himself. "If they can't have luck, at least they have that."

"And there it is again, bloody thing," Nori said darkly, and he glowered at the looming shape of Orodruin – so close now, so very close. "I hate that mountain."

It was an odd thing for any Dwarf to say, but Fíli knew exactly how Nori felt. With slag pooled all around the foothills, its sides pitted like scabrous and diseased skin, and the glowing open mouth that was no doubt the entry to the chasm of fire, Mount Doom was hideous to see and hideous to sense. Fíli's stone-sense had always been better than that of Thorin, Dís or Kíli, and his flesh crawled to think of the rock inside that twisted, malevolent furnace. All the earth here had been poisoned for so long, and that place more than most.

"Come on," he said, and steeled himself as the Hobbits began to creep onwards towards it.

* * *

Ori shrugged off the light of Gimlîn-zâram and raised a finger, ready to give whomever he had found a piece or two of his mind. Then he stopped.

"Where are we?" said Bifur, rubbing his eyes.

"This is our family's apartments," Ori said slowly, and he turned around and around in confusion. "Erebor. But Thrór and Queen Hrera were keeping watch here, I thought? Why have the stars brought us to Dori's room, and not to Gondor?"

Bifur's eyes widened, and he nodded to a point just behind Ori's back. "Perhaps that's why."

Ori spun around, and his jaw went slack in outrage at the sight of the overdressed, oily Man rifling through Dori's desk-drawer. The files that had clustered thickly upon the bookshelves were spread all over the floor. Even the faded ink-drawing Ori had gifted Dori upon his hundred birthday had been ripped from the wall, and now it lay torn in its frame upon the ground. "How _dare_ he!" he spluttered, and his fists shook at his sides. "How DARE HE!?"

"That is one of the two nobles Dáin told us of," Bifur said, his lip curling in disdain. A noise from the other room made him peer around the corner, and he spied the woman emptying out a box of papers. "And there's the other."

"I'll have their _hair,_ the foul - the treacherous beasts, the – NO!" Ori howled as Inorna's eyes fell on an old pen-stand. It went crashing to the ground as she opened the box sitting beneath it. "That was our mother's!"

"Ori! Ori, Âzyungelê!" Bifur stepped forward and put a hand upon Ori's arm, gentling him. "The dragon wasn't half as fierce as you," he murmured in admiration and worry, "but sanmelek, we can but watch and report to Thorin. Ma ikhyij thaiku khama nurt ze' suruj!"

"Then let's GET Thorin," Ori snarled, and he whirled for the doorway. Which was abruptly filled by a lean, elegant figure clad in red, stooping to clear the low lintel.

"Lord Krummett," said Merilin in her clear, calm voice. "What do you think you are you doing?"

Krummett froze, his hand up to the wrist in a money-box. Inorna's breath caught, and she immediately pressed herself up against the wall, out of the line of sight.

Krummett's chin rose, and he threw out his chest. A dagger gleamed in his hand. "What needs to be done," he sneered. "There's proof somewhere, I'll stake my name on it. And I'll find it and I'll bring these monsters to light!"

Merilin held out her hand and moved closer to the Man, her body tense and alert. "You see conspiracies where there are none," she said, quiet and crisp. "The Dwarves of Erebor have dealt in good faith with your people, and they do so still despite all their losses, despite all it costs them and their folk. There is no _plot_ , no hidden store of food, no secret scheme. The food was running scarce before Dale fell. Now, despite all collections and efforts, it is nearly gone. Yet you do not starve."

"Lies!" Krummett pointed a shaking finger at the Elf-woman, his face alight with the fervour of the obsessed. "Then why did they not hear us when they stood in council over us? Dwarves, holding Council over _me!"_ He gave an ugly laugh of derision. "Stunted, grubby little filth, lording it up over their betters, withholding the power that is rightfully mine!"

Inorna's brow furrowed, and she scowled from her hiding spot. Yet she did not move a muscle.

"Nope, I've changed my mind, kill him," Bifur grunted.

Ori was too speechless with rage to give a coherent answer.

"The Dwarves of Erebor have acted in good faith," Merilin repeated, and she took another cautious step closer. "You and your companion, however, have not. You sought to use them for your own gain. You sought to take advantage of their generosity and sorrow. You thought that the grief of Bard and Thorin would be so complete that you could do as you saw fit in the house of another. You claw and twist for power, and spread falsehoods wherever you can. The Mountain sheltered you in your need, but you have only poured your scorn upon her."

The dagger jerked up towards her. "Complete fabrications!" Krummett bellowed, his eyes darting side to side, searching for any exit. "I demand satisfaction for such slander!"

"All you need do is bide your time, if vengeance is all you care for," Merilin said calmly. "There is an army of Orcs beyond these walls, and we shall be starving in a week."

"I tell you, there _is-_ "

"I am one of those who oversaw the collection," she said, and she took another step, and another. "I am an Elf. I do not serve the interests of Men or Dwarves, and I say to you, the silos are nearly empty. The food-collections did not gather as much as hoped. Your accusations are false. Your delusions of grandeur are misplaced and pitiful, and your methods are foul."

Krummett bristled in indignation, his dagger wavering to and fro. "You speak of things you know nothing about, _Elf!_ You have no hearts, you immortals, no sympathies for the struggles of those whose blood runs fiercer and fresher than yours. Made of ice and wax, the lot of you! You cannot imagine what I have lost: all my gold, my businesses, my servants, my place in court…"

"If what Balin says is true, his place in court was bullying and extorting poor old Brand until the King was too exhausted to put up any more fight," said Bifur.

"I could put a stone," Ori seethed, " _right_ between his eyes, if I had my sling…"

"Your gold and influence means nothing here," Merilin said, and fast as a striking snake her hand shot out and grasped the hilt of the dagger. Her fingers tightened over his, and he cried out and wrenched his hand away. She leaned in and said, low, "this mountain is full of gold. It is now worth less than a handful of beans."

Krummett cradled his hand upon his chest, breathing hard. "What will you do?" he forced out.

"Do?" came a growl from the entry behind them. "What _won't I do?!"_

"Dori!" Ori cheered, and he punched the air. "Yes!"

"Careful, don't forget Inor-" Bifur shouted, as Dori rushed towards the tableau with the hammer whistling before him. Merilin stepped aside, lightning-fast, and Krummett yelped and crammed himself beneath the desk – which splintered beneath the massive hammer blow.

"Get! Out! of my! home!" roared Dori, and he raised the hammer again and rushed the Man, who was scooting away on his backside, whimpering with fear. "You vile, _treacherous…"_

"Master Dwarf!" Merilin cried, and she flipped the dagger about in her hand to hold it low and ready. "Control yourself! We must bring him before our Lords! He will answer for his deeds and words. Let Bard's wisdom settle this affair. Let the matters of Men remain with Men."

Dori rocked back and forth, the hammer poised to land. Krummett was nigh-gibbering in terror.

Ori's breath caught in his mouth, and he grimaced. "Mahal curse him," he grated, and felt Bifur's hand once again steadying him, its warmth seeping through to his shoulder. "We should be shot of his poison…"

"Dori is no murderer," Bifur reminded him, and his fingers squeezed Ori's shoulder once, gently. "Nor are you, Ghivashelê."

Finally, Dori lowered the hammer, though his muscles still trembled with pent-up fury. "Bind him," he snarled, and stalked over to where his files had been tipped onto the floor. "I don't trust myself to handle him, if you'll pardon me, Mistress Merilin."

Merilin's face was, as ever, composed, but her body relaxed slowly. "As you wish, Master Dori," she said, and then her mouth tilted upwards. "I cannot blame you, considering."

Dori sucked a huge breath in through his nose, his shoulders hunching, as his gaze fell on the torn ink-portrait of himself and his brothers, lying discarded like so much old rubbish. "Get him out of here," he rasped. With slow and tender movements he picked it up and smoothed back the ragged rips with his thumb, restoring Nori's cocky face to wholeness. "Before I change my mind."

Taking up a length of fallen cloth from Dori's workbench, Merilin grabbed Krummett's quivering arms and hauled him to his feet. Then she bound his hands and feet together firmly. "You will try nothing foolish," she told him as she tore another strip of fabric and threaded it through his teeth, and he shook his head with astonishing rapidity.

Ori had no time for them, however. All his attention was on his brother, who still stood furious and sad, facing the wall amid the ruin of his home. Dori bit his lip and clasped the old portrait to his heart. A gusty sigh left him.

"Nadad, I'm here," Ori moaned, and Bifur's hand squeezed upon his shoulder again. "Oh, I can't bear it," he burst out, and he turned to bury his face in Bifur's chest. Stroking Ori's hair, Bifur kissed his brow and laid his cheek atop the soft brown head.

There was a soft choking noise.

Bifur's head whipped up to see Inorna burying a knife-blade into Dori's unprotected back.

  
  
Dori, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/137347689590/knife-to-meet-you-determamfidd-updated-sansukh)  


* * *

A nut went flying into the eye of an Orc, and there was a little chittering sound of triumph.

"Nice shot, Reggie!"

"I can't believe the Wizard brought a _squirrel_ into battle," said Lóni, though his voice only held a tired sort of resignation. "I mean, I _can_ believe it – but I wish I couldn't."

"Everyone's a critic," grumbled the Wizard, and he whirled again, his staff crashing into the teeth of the great northern Orc that was creeping through the trees towards him. "Dol Guldur is dead ahead! Be wary, my lady!"

Thráin stared up at the forbidding shape of Dol Guldur. The whites showed clearly around his eyes.

"It's too close in here for archery!" shouted Celeborn, and his sword spun around him in graceful circles. "We will have to fight to the gate!"

"There's nothing new about that," puffed Radagast. "Gracious, rude thing – wait your turn!" he snapped to an Orc who was rushing towards him with sword held high. A spark of purple-white fire from his fingers sent it reeling back, clutching at its eyes, and it was dispatched by another blow of the staff.

"There are not enough of them," said Thráin. His hands were fisted tightly in the hem of his tunic, and his face was hard and pale. Frís was standing close by, her arm wrapped around his waist. "Dol Guldur is too well defended, and they are too weary. They have fought all this way, from the very edges of the Golden Wood…"

Radagast straightened and looked over with a resigned expression at where Celeborn was spearheading the advance. Behind the lines stood the Lady Galadriel. Her sword was bloody, but now she stood apart from the fighting, lost in deep thought. The ring upon her finger glowed like the mouth of a dragon, and her body swayed as she gathered her strength. "Blast. They're nearly spent."

A spider came swinging out of the trees at that moment, and Lóni yelled, "above you!"

Radagast pulled a face. "I didn't want to do this," he complained to the air. "I really didn't want to, I shouldn't be making use of our friendships this way…"

"Whatever it is you intend to do, Wizard," Frár yelled as another massive spider barrelled towards the hard-pressed Elves, "do it and stop your fussing! There's no more time!"

Radagast scowled. "Gandalf is welcome to the entire lot of you," he snapped. "Insolent little dead Dwarf."

"The spider!" Lóni yelled, as the one from above finally dropped from its web to land fully upon Radagast. "Durin's beard, he _would_ keep talking!"

With another brief burst of purple fire, the spider went flying backwards, and then Radagast hauled himself to his feet. "Reginald," he called, and again there was that unexpected note of power in his crotchety old voice. "Now!"

The squirrel scampered out of the Wizard's robes to perch upon the crystal atop his staff. Then Radagast hunched and strange words began to trip from his mouth. The air darkened and shook, seeming to bend before them like the heat that poured from the mouth of a forge. Radagast's voice grew deeper and more sonorous even as the crystal began to pulse with fire.

"Oh, this cannot be good," Frís muttered.

Then Radagast tipped back his head and whistled between his lips: a fluting and alien sound. Lóni could hardly believe that it was coming from the Wizard. It echoed through the trees, but rather than fading away it only seemed to grow in sound, until the entirety of lower Mirkwood shrilled with it.

The woods _exploded_ into life. Small animals and birds erupted from every hollow trunk and every den, flying and biting and scratching. "Don't you get yourselves hurt!" Radagast hollered, even as his whistle climbed and climbed through the air, to mingle with the screeches of the birds and the hoarse growls of the badgers. "Not talking to _you,"_ he added scornfully to an Orc who bumped into him in the confusion. The Wizard cracked it over the head with his staff. The Orc fell like a dropped rock.

All around, Orcs were sent crashing as vines and tendrils fastened them to the ground, and creatures pecked and bit at them. Spiders were clutched tightly in the swinging creepers, only to be pierced by swift Elvish arrows.

There was a ragged cheer from the Galadhrim as they broke through the Orcs and spiders at last. Celeborn raised his curved sword high. "We take the fortress!" he shouted. "Be wary of what you find. The darkness long slept here, undisturbed. There will be traps!"

"And more than traps," said Thráin, breathing hard through his nose. "It will deceive the senses and the mind. Nothing here is as it seems! There are lies built upon lies."

"Meleth," Celeborn said in a lower voice, and he crossed to where Galadriel stood, barefoot as always, her eyes tight-closed and her body buffeted by whatever power she harboured. "We have made the Gate."

She nodded wordlessly, and then her calm face was touched with a faint hint of surprise. "More approach," she said. Her voice was not loud, but it pressed heavily upon the ears in a way that even Radagast's piercing whistle had not. It had the same strange, oppressive quality of distant thunder; its very softness juddering in the air.

"Reform ranks!" Celeborn barked with another worried glance at his wife. "No dirweg!"

The Galadhrim moved in one flowing wave, bows drawing in unison. Celeborn strode through them to the front, his armour glinting and streaked with ichor and black blood. "Who comes here!" he shouted into the forest. "Daro! Man le carel sí? Show yourselves!"

A cool voice answered, "Is this how you would greet your allies?"

"Oh, Thorin isn't going to like this," Frís muttered.

Between the massive tree boles came the unmistakeable shape of a massive stag. Its cloven hooves picked delicately between the fallen bodies of the Orcs and spiders, and its great antlered head was held proudly. Half-seen in the shadows behind it were bright Elven eyes and green-clad limbs, moving like a whisper of wind in the darkness of Mirkwood.

Celeborn lowered his sword slightly, and breathed a little easier. "Thranduil."

"Cousin." The Elvenking inclined his head, as chilly and remote as ever. At his right shoulder rode his son, the compact and fierce Laindawar. Both wore full armour that wrapped around them like folded leaves. "Apologies for being detained: we have repelled the Orcs that tried to cross the black river. There was the small matter of a forest fire to attend to." He cocked his head. "I see you have had some sport before my arrival."

"Sport!" Radagast said indignantly. "Reggie nearly got eaten!"

Thranduil's unblinking gaze turned onto the Wizard, who scowled at him. "Don't try to intimidate me," he grumbled, flapping his robes around his legs. A fieldmouse went scampering away from beneath them. "I've been stared down by far worse than the likes of _you."_

"Aiwendil," said Thranduil, and his chin lowered a fractional amount – quite the gesture of respect, coming from him, Lóni thought. "My son told me that you had returned to the southern reaches of my forest."

"Of course I did, I'm a long-term resident!" Radagast snapped. He scratched under his filthy hat, before flicking away a louse between his fingers. "You lot took your time catching up. I trust I'll hear no more slights against my rabbits henceforth."

"Your forest?" said Celeborn, soft.

Thranduil's head turned again, slow and stately. "My people have fought for it, and bled for it, for many long months. This fight has raged for longer even than you guess at," he said, his pale eyes fixing upon the Lord of Lothlórien. "Why should I not claim what belongs to me?"

"It is not _yours_ , the very cheek," Radagast huffed. "The trees and creatures that live here do not answer to you, nor me, nor any other. This forest has been here since the kindling of the stars and will last long after the memory of Elves has faded. Besides," and here he nodded to the hunched and yawning shape of ruined Dol Guldur, "this bit's under new management, it appears."

Thranduil drew his sword. "Then we shall have to persuade them otherwise."

"I was worried you were going to say that," muttered Galion, somewhere in the gloom behind the Elvenking.

"I could learn to like that Elf," said Frár thoughtfully.

"I did not think to find you here, Lord," said Laindawar to Celeborn, before he glanced back at where Galadriel swayed and gasped. "Aiwendil told us of your entrapment. Have you left the Golden Wood unguarded?"

"Never," said Celeborn, and he stepped smoothly between the Prince and his wife, his chin lifting sharply and his gaze level. "It is defended still, though three times the enemy have hurled themselves against our walls of enchantment."

The corners of Thranduil's eyes tightened ever so slightly, and he raised a hand to silence his son. "I see," was all he said, though there was a note of something low and satisfied in the way he said it. Celeborn stiffened.

"I missed something, just then," Lóni said, confused.

"Oh, for Nessa's _sake_ , it's perfectly simple," Radagast said crossly. "The Lady is extending her power further than she has ever done. She is maintaining the borders of Lothlórien from without against the hordes that still seek to ruin it, even as she prepares to assault this pile of filth. Thranduil is commenting without commenting on how much it has cost her to bear the Elven-ring without saying a word. It's a little childish and petty, if you want my opinion, although to be fair to him, he's probably miffed that he had to face fire again. But still, ring or no, he's a _King_ after all, and no other living Elf in Middle-Earth bears that ti…"

"Wizard, I think you should stop there," said Frís, in a very pointed tone. " _Now_."

Radagast paused. Then he squinted between Celeborn's stony expression and Thranduil's dreadful glare. "Oh, very well," he grumbled, and began to peer about at the leaf-littered ground. "Reggie, where's my other shoe gotten to?"

In the background came the half-choked sounds of Galion, trying to muffle his hysterics.

Celeborn and Thranduil regarded each other in silence for a long, tense moment, before Thranduil eventually bowed his head and lowered his eyes. "We are with you," he said, simply.

"All of us," Laindawar added. His young buck pawed at the ground with a hoof.

Celeborn's jaw rippled, and then he turned on his heel and strode back to his wife. "Meleth," he said, and took her hand. She bent like reeds caught in a wind, her face slowly drifting towards him. Her eyes were still smoothly closed, and her breath came in short puffs. "Meleth, Thranduil has come with his people."

"Thranduil," she repeated in her gentle, terrible voice. "Good. That is well. Mi van me?"

His expression did not change, but somehow Lóni knew he was breaking a little on the inside. "We've made the Gate, my love," he said again, and she nodded.

"That is good," she said. Then she opened her eyes at last.

They _burned._

* * *

"DORI!" Ori howled. "DORI!"

Inorna ripped her knife free, and spun to point it at Merilin. "Let him go!" she hissed, her face wild with fear and loathing. "Now!"

Merilin stood unmoving.

"I said _now_!" Inorna screamed, even as Dori crumpled to all fours, gasping in pain. "Do as I say! I am in charge here, Elf, and you will obey me!"

With unruffled calm, Merilin brought forth the dagger she had taken from Krummett. "You have no power over me," she said, and tipped her head to one side. "Master Dori, do not move."

"Wasn't… going to," he choked. Blood drip-dripped slowly into the carpet beneath him. Ori wept.

  
  
You have no power over me, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/138309307040/you-have-no-power-over-me-she-said-number-86)  


"I will kill him!" Inorna said, her voice quavering around the words. "I will do it, don't push me, I told them, I _told_ them what would happen if they did! And now look what you have done!"

Merilin remained silent, but her blade did not waver.

Inorna's face twisted. "Oh yes, this is all your doing! You and your precious committee, you keep the lion's share for yourselves and have no care for anyone else! Your selfish and conceited…"

"Your rantings grow ever more dull and nonsensical," cut in Merilin, and she had never before sounded so much an Elf of Thranduil's realm: perfectly and icily disdainful. "Cease this prattle and strike me. I doubt you will be quite so effective when you cannot stab your victim in the back."

Inorna panted where she stood, her face filling with despair. Then in one explosive motion she threw the dagger at Merilin's face, picked up her skirts, and ran for it.

The dagger flew wide and clattered to the floor. Merilin barely had to swerve to avoid it as she immediately rushed to Dori's side. "Master Dori," she said urgently, and carefully held a hand over his back. "Master Dori, are you still awake?"

"Of course… ungh! I am!" came the cross reply. "This piffling little wound isn't enough to knock me out –nnh - I am a _Dwarf,_ for Mahal's sweet sake!"

Ori nearly collapsed in Bifur's arms in relief.

"May I touch you?"

"Aye, you'd better," Dori grunted, and he hissed in pain as Merilin's hands came to rest upon his back. "That was my favourite pen-knife. Blast. My brothers always did used to say that my work would be the death of me…"

"She has gone, though I daresay that shall not be the last we see of her," Merilin said, and she carefully ripped the hole in Dori's tunic wider so that she could see the wound between his heavy shoulderblade and spine. It was small, but deep, and it was trickling blood in an even rivulet over Dori's side. "She has missed your spine, and you are not bleeding profusely enough for any major vessels to have ruptured. How is your breathing?"

"Very painful, thank you kindly," Dori snapped.

"Do you wish to cough, or are you short of breath?" Merilin peered around to look at his sweat-beaded face, and Dori gave her a cross look in return.

"No."

"Then she has also missed your lungs." Merilin sat back upon her haunches, and she pressed her hand carefully over the wound. Dori drew a sharp breath and groaned again. "It appears that you are very fortunate. However, I should not leave you. You may yet go into shock."

"Stuff and nonsense. Wrap me up and get me onto my feet," Dori gritted out. The Elf hesitated as though she were about to protest, but at Dori's fierce glare she shook her head.

"This is against my judgement," she warned, and she tore off another length of cloth from one of the bolts nearby.

"And you know so much of the hardiness of Dwarves, do you?" asked Dori irritably, though he stopped speaking at once as the makeshift bandage was wrapped around him with deft hands. "We're far, _far_ tougher than any of you – ahhhh! –you lot ever give us credit for. I've seen worse than this scratch. I was in the Battle of the Five Armies, kindly recall."

Merilin helped him stand, steadying him carefully. Dori gasped and wheezed a little, and his face was now bathed in sweat, but he stood his ground. "The strongest of the Company," Bifur whispered into Ori's ear. "He'll be all right, you'll see."

Ori's hands clutched at his, and he said nothing in return.

"Now," Dori puffed, and he leaned against the wall for a moment, before lurching back upright and accepting Merilin's forearm to lean upon. "What to do about this snake here?"

Merilin glanced down at Krummett with distaste. "We cannot leave him here. His accomplice is still at large."

A sudden booming crash against the mountainside made them all jolt in surprise. "The others shall be upon the ramparts again," Merilin said at last, and Dori pulled a face at the prospect of walking all that distance with an untreated wound in his upper back.

"Yes, there's also the small matter of the besieging armies," he grunted. He hemmed and hawed for a moment, before he reluctantly nodded. "Nothing else for it. We'll need to hamper his legs, even if he must be able to walk."

"I shall shackle him so that he may still use them, but he will not be able to run," Merilin said, before giving Dori a faint smile. "Your bravery is admirable, Master Dori."

"Of course it is. I'm a Ri," he said, lifting his face proudly. Ori smiled through his tears. "Let's get this scoundrel to justice."

* * *

The Morannon loomed before them, a bristling row of teeth thrust out of the barren soil. It seemed empty and abandoned, but all knew that the Towers of the Teeth were crammed with the foe, and that the Eye watched ceaselessly, greedy for violence.

Too, perched like a vulture upon an overhanging crag was the motionless form of a great leathery beast. The remaining Nazgûl watched as well, biding their time.

"We shouldn't have sent away those Men at the Crossroads," Gimli muttered, and he gripped his axe tightly in his fist. "I thought seven thousands was foolhardy. Now we number less than six."

Thorin stared at the Gates of Mordor. They were fastened shut, looming over the plain like an escarpment of steel. There was no assaulting that. The host of Rohirrim and Gondorian warriors shifted uneasily in their ranks. Horses whinnied unhappily in the chill air.

"We have no choice but to play our part to the bitter end," said Aragorn in his quiet way. His hair had been drawn back, and he no longer bore the travelling gear he had worn for so long. Now he was clad in full plate armour of shining silver, and the White Tree of Númenor was upon his breast. He looked every inch the King of Gondor and Arnor, though his voice was still that of the Ranger. "We must arrange ourselves as best we can contrive. There is little high ground here, but these two blasted stones may serve as such."

"Aye, and a great stinking mudpit between us and Mordor, too," said Gimli, frowning at it. "The horses won't enjoy that much, Aragorn. To be frank, neither will I."

"We must draw them out, rather than storm the Gate," Legolas said, and Aragorn nodded.

"I will place our bait," he said.

"What's the bait?" whispered Frerin.

"Aragorn himself is the bait, big cousin," Dáin answered softly. "Remember the Palantír?"

Frerin's eyes darted back to Aragorn, and he swallowed.

Beckoning Imrahil and Éomer close, Aragorn spoke with them in hushed voices for a short while. There was some argument, but it was plain that Aragorn would not be discouraged. Resigned, Imrahil nodded. Éomer looked mulish, but eventually he capitulated as well. There was a flurry of orders, and then a blast of trumpets rang through the Mountains of Shadow.

"The Captains of the West have come!" shouted the Heralds. "The Captains of the West have come! Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!"

The gate remained shut and silent. The only sound was the wind hissing over the plain. The crests upon the helms of the Rohirrim tossed in that wind, as did the tails of their steeds.

"Nay!" Gandalf said, striding forward. "Do not say, _The Captains of the West!_ Say instead, _The King Elessar_."

Imrahil smiled humourlessly. "That is true, even though he has not yet sat upon the throne; and it will give the Enemy more thought, if the heralds use that name."

Gandalf's shrewd old eyes flicked down to Thorin, and his face softened. "A King is a King, my Prince Imrahil," he said, "whatever chair they use."

"Did Gandalf just give you a compliment?" asked an astonished voice, and Thorin shook himself out of his surprise to see Bilbo clambering over a tussock of rotting weeds. "As backhanded as ever, I see."

"Bilbo." Thorin rubbed the back of his head. "Are you all right?"

Bilbo averted his eyes. "Fine, in the pink, whatever you wish to call it," he said in the brisk way that told Thorin without words that Bilbo did not wish to speak of it. "Where is this place now?"

"That's Mordor." Thorin nodded towards it, and Bilbo turned and gulped as he looked up – and up – and _up._

"That's a very impressive front-door," he said faintly. "I am fairly sure they don't need a 'No Admittance' sign."

"No." Thorin stared at the massive barbed gates. "They have but six thousand warriors. This is a doomed attempt."

"It was always a doomed attempt," Dáin said, glowering at the Towers of the Teeth, his arms folded. "Besides, we're _experts_ at doomed attempts."

"He's not wrong," said Bilbo, his mouth quirking.

"What's going on?" Óin wanted to know, and Frerin drew him aside and whispered for a moment. Then Óin exclaimed, "What? _Here?_ My old friend, here?"

"I'm growing used to these reactions," said Bilbo wryly. "Tell Óin hello, would you please?"

Thorin relayed this, but then was interrupted by a braying of horns. "The King Elessar has come! Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" cried the Heralds. "Justice shall be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, and depart then for ever. Come forth!"

There was no reply from within the massive gates. They remained as silent and remote as the stars.

"Well, that didn't go very well either," Frerin said, wrinkling his nose.

"No doubt His Monocular Nibs is busy rubbing his eye in disbelief," said Dáin.

Óin muffled a snort. "Singularly shocked at the sight, I'll wager."

Dáin grinned at him. "Aye, he probably can't believe his eye."

"Blinking in amazement… or possibly winking."

"Aye, aye."

"No, there's just the one."

"Good gracious, you're both terrible," said Bilbo, scratching at his brow in helpless amusement.

"How are you joking?" Frerin said, shifting from foot to foot in worry as the trumpets sounded once more. "I can hardly breathe, and my heart's trying to clamber out of my chest."

Dáin checked himself, before he smiled a crooked sort of smile. "It's the sort o' thing I do, big cousin o' mine," he said. "We're facing the ruination of all hope. Only natural to make fun of the bastard behind it all."

"Look!" Thorin said sharply.

With an echoing _crack!_ the vast gates of the Morannon were parting. They opened just wide enough to allow a rider to pass between them. Seated on a black horse, the figure was manlike in appearance… at least, at first glance.

However, when one looked closely… Thorin felt all the flesh creeping upon his back. "His _mouth,"_ he said in horror.

"It's like his skin has split open," Bilbo whispered, and his little face blanched, though he did not look away. "What manner of creature is he?"

"He was a Man," answered Gandalf in grim tones. "Once. He comes from the same blood as Aragorn, long-lived and keen of thought, but his people turned to the worship of Sauron long ago. He is the Lieutenant of the Dark Tower, the Black Númenórean. His mouth has cracked from the poison of his words."

"Stand!" Éomer shouted to his Rohirrim, before he wheeled Firefoot towards Aragorn. "What answer do we give?"

Aragorn had not looked away from the Ambassador of Sauron. "We must play the part," he said, even and calm. "Every last second may yet be precious to the true Quest. Gandalf, will you act as my chief Herald? Éomer, I would have you at my side, and Imrahil also. And Legolas, Gimli and Pippin too, that all the enemies of Mordor may witness this."

"I'm going too," Thorin said determinedly, and Gimli nodded slightly in response.

"I'm not goin' any closer to that thing without you," he said.

The black horse danced to a standstill a few lengths from the Gate, its red eyes rolling. As the small party approached, the vile distorted mouth split into a cruel smile.

"My master Sauron the Great bids thee welcome," he said.

"Said the spider to the fly!" Óin spat.

Bilbo shuddered. "Let's not mention spiders, eh?"

Aragorn simply stared with immense hatred at the Black Númenórean. "No doubt he sees a warped reflection," said Thorin. "Aragorn, _no,_ don't be a fool."

The horrible figure hissed with laughter. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he said, and his lips parted around sharpened, hook-pointed teeth that were blackened and rotting. "Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me?"

"We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed," said Gandalf sternly. "Tell your master this. The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."

"Ah, old Greybeard," mocked the Messenger. "Then thou art the spokesman? Have we not heard of thee at whiles, and of thy wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? I have tokens that I was bidden to show to thee - if thou shouldst dare to come."

First to emerge was Sam's blade of Westernesse, and then the cloak of Lothlórien. Then to Thorin's dismay, he held before their eyes the unmistakeable moonlit gleam of mithril.

"Frodo," Bilbo mouthed voicelessly, his hands clasping his face. Then he cried, "that is my _shirt,_ you wretched – you _foul-_ "

"Frodo _lives,"_ Thorin barked, and he whirled to where Gimli was similarly horror-struck. "Gimli, Bilbo – Frodo is alive! Gandalf, do you hear me? He was captured, and this token was taken. But Sam freed him, and he still lives!"

Gandalf's eyelid flickered.

"How dare you put your filthy hands on it! It was given to me!" Bilbo fumed. "One of the only things I ever…" He stopped abruptly.

Thorin did not look over at him, but he could feel his cheeks heating beneath his beard. Unhelpfully (or perhaps helpfully, it was hard to know), Dáin elbowed him in the back. "Didn't you gift that thing to the Hobbit?"

"Yes, thank you, we're all aware," Thorin said curtly. Óin was sniggering a trifle hysterically, and Gimli was rolling his eyes.

But another voice piped up over the shock and confusion, and Thorin turned to see Pippin's eyes filling with tears. "Frodo," he choked.

"Be quiet," Gandalf muttered harshly.

But Pippin's face was crumpling. "Frodo!" he wept aloud, and the Mouth of Sauron exulted.

"Silence!" hissed Gandalf, but the damage was done.

"The Halfling was dear to thee, I see," said the Mouth of Sauron, with terrible satisfaction. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain?"

Aragorn's eyes blazed with fury, and true hate shone in Gimli's face. Legolas' face was blank, but his knuckles were white upon his bow.

The Mouth of Sauron's voice lowered in a parody of gentleness. "And he did Gandalf, he did."

Sensing that he had the upper hand, the nightmarish man then straightened and addressed the party in unctuous tones. "It is plain that this brat at least has seen these tokens before, and it would be vain for you to deny them now."

"I do not wish to deny them," said Gandalf, his mouth tight.

"Dwarf-coat, elf-cloak, blade of the downfallen West, and spy from the little rat-land of the Shire-nay; here are the marks of a conspiracy!" said the Mouth of Sauron. "No doubt his errand was one that you did not wish to fail. It has. And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done. This shall surely be – unless you accept my Lord's terms."

"They don't have him," shouted Thorin. "It's a _bluff._ "

"Bloody convincing bluff, I'll give 'em that," Dáin said, glaring at the Ambassador.

Then the wicked creature seemed to sense Aragorn's rage, and his head snaked around to face him. "And who is this? Isildur's heir? It takes more to make a King than a broken Elvish blade or a piece of elvish glass."

Aragorn said naught in answer, but he took the other's eye and held it for a moment. Thorin held his breath, watching. Though Aragorn did not stir nor move hand to weapon, the other quailed and gave back as if menaced with a blow.

"I am an Ambassador, and may not be touched!" the Mouth of Sauron blustered, but Gandalf snatched the mithril vest and the cloak and sword from his hands.

"Get you gone, for your embassy is over and death is near to you," he snarled. "Another word and your life ends."

The Mouth of Sauron bared his hideous teeth. "You have no hope," he sneered – but his words were cut short by a blinding flash of steel as Andúril sheared his head clean from his shoulders.

"I guess that concludes negotiations," said Gimli.

"Should have done that to begin with," Óin grumbled as Aragorn wheeled his horse back to face the assembled Captains and free folk.

"I do not believe it," he grated. "I _will_ not believe it."

"Good man," Dáin said with an approving little nod.

"Thorin, I can't…" Frerin faltered, staring at the collapsing corpse of the Mouth of Sauron. Thorin rounded upon his brother, and he gripped Frerin's hands tightly in his own.

"Go," he said. "Find Fíli and Kíli, stay with them. Bring me news of Sam and Frodo."

Frerin's eyes tore away from the blood seeping into the slimy ground, and there was gratitude in his face. Thorin nodded to him, and squeezed his hands again. This task he could do and with honour, and it would not cause him more pain. "Thank you, Nadad."

"There's none faster than you, Nadad," he replied, and touched foreheads. Then the starlight was enveloping Frerin and taking him away.

"That was kind of you," Bilbo said, muted and small. Thorin straightened.

"Frerin does not deal well with battles."

Bilbo pulled a sour face. "Do any of us?"

Drums began to sound from within the gigantic gates, and fires leapt atop the battlements. Even as Aragorn and his companions made their way back to the Armies of the West, there was a horn-call and the gates began to slowly and ponderously creak open. The jingle of armoured Orcs by the thousand could be heard beyond.

"Sauron has taken the bait in jaws of steel," Legolas murmured, as they rejoined the ranks of the Armies of the West. They were shifting in fear and uncertainty, the sheer scale of the horror descending upon them turning their bones to water.

Aragorn took one look at the faces of the assembled Rohirrim and Gondorian soldiery, and he immediately pushed Brego into a canter. "Hold your ground!" he bellowed, Andúril flashing in the dim light. "Hold your ground!"

"Ooooh, are we going to get a speech? You never gave a speech," said Bilbo, and he craned his head to see. "I should write it down, I should. This is an historical sort of moment…"

"I believe you have given your opinion of my speeches, Bilbo," Thorin said, and Dáin guffawed, off to one side.

"Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!" Aragorn roared, and Brego flew like the wind down the line. "I see it in your eyes, the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!"

"Good speech," said Óin, nodding with grudging admiration.

"Listen to me, my heart," Gimli said, low and clear. "We will do all we said we would. We will live and be wed, we will make old places new, we will brave your folk and mine. Damned be all of it! I will write to Thranduil myself and tell him all the ways I love you. I will stand before him and sing songs of your bravery and beauty. I am not afraid of him. Look around you, Kurdulê! What worse can befall us? What greater fear can there be?"

  
  
Gimli and Legolas at the Morannon, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/137401436174/weeps-welpi-dont-know-how-but-this-somehow-got)  


Legolas gripped his bow tightly in his hand, and stared out at the Black Gates. They opened, yawning ponderously, upon a scene of pure nightmare. The great Eye flooded them with terror, lining the thick-gathered armies of orcs in hellish fire. Trolls roared. Indescribable beasts snorted and slavered at their chains. And above, the Nazgûl screamed their high, shrill sounds of despair.

"So many," Bilbo breathed.

Thorin gazed upon the sight, and a new surge of desperation welled up in him. "They cannot win, they cannot, they have not the numbers, they-" He broke off.

"We knew that before," said Dáin quietly.

"Oh, if I had Sting," Bilbo muttered, and he wrung his hands.

"It has been my honour, and my joy, to love you," Legolas said in a voice that was nearly too soft to hear.

Abruptly, and amazingly, Gimli smiled. "Never thought I'd die fighting side by side with an Elf."

Like wine from a wineskin, all the fearful tension seemed to drain from Legolas at once. His answering smile was gentle. "What about side by side with a friend?"

"Aye," Gimli said, and he looked up at Legolas with a bright light in his eye. "I could do that."

"And more."

"And more," Gimli confirmed, and he gazed with such tenderness up at Legolas that Thorin cast his eyes down, embarrassed.

"Oh," said Bilbo in a surprised sort of way, and he stole a quick sideways look at Thorin, before his ears pinked and he shuffled on the spot.

Thorin frowned. "What is it?"

"Um." Bilbo scratched at his neck, before he made a small noise of defeat and waved a careless hand in Gimli and Legolas' direction. "They're facing complete ruin, complete devastation. Death is upon them, and they know it," he said, and then he looked up to meet Thorin's eyes squarely. "And they talk about what they'll do, about going home and what the future will bring, and they find a little piece of hope – a little piece of _home -_ in each other. And. Well. I like that."

"Aye." Thorin regarded the Hobbit a little fondly, and a little sadly. "I liked it myself."

Bilbo coloured again, and he turned away rather hurriedly.

Then Gimli cleared his throat, and said, "Now, I'm about to do a thing, and I know this isn't the proper way to be goin' about it, but all dead relatives present can keep their flapping traps shut."

Suspicion stole over Thorin. "Gimli…"

Gimli ignored him. Taking a very deep breath, he turned to fully face Legolas. He wet his lips with his tongue, and then he said, "Sansûkhâl."

Óin's knees gave out at once, and he sat down hard, staring at his nephew in dumbfounded amazement and horror.

Legolas' face went still and slack – that Elven sign of complete shock – and he knelt upon the pitted ground to grasp Gimli's mailed hand. "Meleth, is that…"

Gimli ducked his head. "Aye."

"But… we are not beneath stone," Legolas said, and he pressed his face into Gimli's beard. "Why…"

"When an _Elf,"_ moaned Oin, "tells _a Dwarf_ the right way to be goin' about tellin' a Dark-Name…! Well, that's it. That's put the last rivet on the beam. The world is upside-down."

"I would have you know all of me, beloved," Gimli said gently, and ran his hand over the fine-boned head, stroking the pale golden hair. "I have no secrets from you, not anymore. It means, 'he of pure and perfect sight'. Fairly grandiose, I've always thought."

Legolas leaned back to look up at Gimli in wonderment. His hand lifted, and a thumb brushed gently at the corner of Gimli's eye. Then he said, "the name written into your bones, you said. At your Making."

"Aye." Gimli cupped the beardless face in his huge palm. "Now you know me all the way down to my bones."

"Thank you," breathed Legolas, and he bent and kissed that spot, his lips brushing over Gimli's eyelashes, which slid shut. "And know this, my love. No matter what befalls us upon this day, I will know you by this name for the rest of time. I will find you. I will brave Mandos himself if I must, but I will _find you."_

"Don't you dare," Gimli murmured back, and he caught Legolas' lips in a hard, swift kiss. "You're goin' to live, daft Elf. Now, come on. We've a competition to settle."

"For Frodo!" cried Aragorn, and he lifted his sword and charged into the very teeth of the foe.

"Frodo!" Pippin howled, and he began to race after Aragorn as fast as his small legs could carry him. And then as every throat opened in defiance of death itself and the Nazgûl screamed into action, the great and ancient war-cry of the Dwarves thundered over the plain, carried in Gimli's rumbling bellow:

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

* * *

It was utter bedlam, thought Thrór, gripping tightly to Hrera's hand.

"They're practically doin' the job for us!" Dwalin shouted as he lifted his hammer, signalling the boiling pitch once more.

"Promotion amongst Orcs seems to be a fairly cut-throat sort of affair," agreed Jeri. Their axe flashed and spun, sticky with blood. Everywhere upon the battlements, Orcs yammered and howled, falling from the walls of Erebor as they died. Below in the valley, the vast heaving sea squabbled and bit and battled itself: leaderless, the Orcs turned upon each other as quickly as they did upon the Dwarves.

"Get your minds back on what you're doing," Dís snapped.

"Can you see that, to the south?" shouted Bard, and he pointed over the besieging armies to a lightning-streaked darkness that hung heavy over the trees of Mirkwood. "What can that be?"

Laerophen's eyes widened, and he leapt away from the fray to stare at the ominous cloud. "Adar," he breathed.

"Ready the next volley!" Orla commanded, and the catapults were reloaded. All about, the fighting raged as the Elf gazed with dumbstruck fear at his home.

"Highness, you must defend yourself!" Bomfrís shouted, and her short, strong bow twanged and sang. "Oi! _Elf!_ Watch your stupid back, would you…"

Laerophen shook himself even as an Orc fell to the ground behind him, one of Bomfrís' arrows in his throat. "Pay attention," she growled at him, and he licked his lips and raised his knives.

"Thank you, Lady Bomfrís," he said, and dived back into the chaos.

She scowled. " _Why_ do people insist on calling me such stupid things…!"

"Fire!" Orla shouted, and the catapults were unleashed into the bristling, tossing sea of Orcs beneath them. Screams rose as the boulders and pitch caught many, though it barely seemed to put a dint in the numbers.

"Here!" came a new shout from the inner walls, and Thrór tore his eyes from the sight of his beloved home in such chaos. Thira was struggling with the pulleys, and beside her was the sarcastic craftswoman Bani. "Help me with this, someone!"

"Your majesty!" Gimrís, Dwalin and Jeri rushed forward to help her, and as the platform slowly rose a strange contraption was brought into view. "What in Mahal's name is that?" asked Gimrís, panting. There was a deep cut on her forehead, giving her a rather rakish appearance, and her knives were dripping.

"It's a little something the Queen came up with," Bani said, shouldering a rope and pulling the thing forward. "You'll see."

"Looks a bit like a giant windlass," said Jeri, cocking their head and screwing up their face.

"Ah." Dwalin patted Jeri's shoulder. "I think I know. When you've been around as long as I have, Jeri, you'll have seen a few things. And some things stick in the memory…"

Thira gave Dwalin a dry smile. "Aye, you'd remember. Come on, Bani, let's get it loaded and wound."

"You'll like this," Dwalin said, grinning at Jeri. "Now, come on. Where's the King?"

Jeri's face fell, and they looked around in alarm. "He was _right there!"_

"Oh, for…" Dwalin smoothed a hand down his face, grimacing. "You have to keep an eye on 'em, there's no tellin' what they do! This is _your_ damned job now, I ain't young enough anymore to be chasing after the royalty an' their daft ideas!"

"He was right there!" Jeri protested again, and their axe came up and casually decapitated an Orc.

"Where's he got to?" Hrera wondered, and Thrór shook his head.

"No doubt he's where the fighting is thickest," he said.

"Well, naturally he is. That's our family's style," Hrera snorted. "And where's that, do you suppose?"

"Ready?" came Thira's voice, and Bani's laconic "as ready as we're ever likely to be," came in reply.

Thira looked up and spotted her friend, and called, "Dís! Get them out of the way – this may not work!"

"Down!" Dís screamed – and then a massive bola, easily longer than eight Dwarves lying head to toe and with a ball the size of a barrel at the end of the gargantuan chain, flew from the mouth of the strange machine. It arced out into the air further than seemed physically possible, before ricocheting off the icy sod to bounce through the valley, cutting a giant swathe through the cluster of Orcs. It travelled for half a mile at least before it slowed, and left bare frozen earth as wide as a road in its wake.

Cries and shrieks of dismay and terror arose from the Orcs and Easterlings – and some of the Easterlings even broke off from the edges of the army, fleeing back towards ruined Dale.

"Yes!" Dwalin shouted, his fist pumping the air. "Ah, he would have _loved_ t' see that!"

Thira's answering smile was sad. "Aye, that's where I got the idea."

"Where the bloody hell is the KING?" Jeri howled, and they fought like one possessed through the stunned invaders, their eyes searching each face frantically. "Thorin? Thorin, you idiot, where are you?"

Dwalin paused, leaning on his hammer for a moment, and he watched the younger warrior with an old, bitter memory flickering briefly in his eyes. "They do say everything goes around again," he grunted to himself.

"Get moving," Dís said to him, but her hand on his brawny old forearm was gentle. "You're in the way."

"Thorin, you damned, pig-headed-" Jeri broke off their shouting to smash the butt of their axe into the teeth of an oncoming Orc, before they brightened in recognition. "There you are!"

The King was back against a pillar, his Morningstar whirling, his heavy sword drenched in blood all the way up to his wrist. There were open cuts all over his face, and his teeth were bare in a snarl of pure hate as he slashed and swung at the enemies all around him. "Hold a little longer!" Jeri hollered, and they vaulted over a pile of groaning wounded to where the Stonehelm was surrounded.

But Thrór had no opportunity to see the King saved from his predicament, for at that moment Víli appeared in a flash of white fire. "Thrór, found you at last," he said at once. "There's a problem…"

"There's several thousand problems," Hrera said, her eyebrow crooking, "all crawling around in the valley below."

"Not all of them." Víli looked so serious that Thrór could barely recognise his light-hearted, merry-faced grandson-in-law. "Those two Dalemen."

"Mahumb," Thrór groaned, and he reached out to grasp Víli's shoulder. "What now?"

"It's worse even than you know," said another, and Ori stepped out of nothingness, Bifur hovering behind him. "Dori's been hurt."

"Is it serious?"

Ori's lips tightened, and he shrugged a little. "Stabbed in the back."

Hrera stiffened. "Who had the _appalling bad manners_ to stab their host?"

Thrór gave his wife a grimly amused look. Of course she would find the impropriety of breaking the laws of hospitality more grievous than say, the insult or injury. "The woman, Inorna," Bifur said. "It was her. The man is captured."

"And what happened to her?" Thrór said, leaning forward.

Bifur and Ori shared a look. "We don't know," Ori confessed, his hands clenching into fists. "She got away."

Thrór swore long and loudly, until Hrera gave him a light smack on the forearm. "Keep wary," Thrór said, and drew himself together. "We may yet need to call Thorin and use his gift. See if you can find this Inorna, she may have fled to the…"

A new sound echoed over the din, a thin and raucous caw. Bomfrís cried out in alarm and ran forward. "No!" she said, waving her arms frantically. "Tuäc, you need to go back in! There's so many arrows – it's not safe!"

"The King, the King!" croaked the raven. "Bring the King! Fire! Ware the enemy behind you, folk of Erebor! Fire, Fire!"

"Fire?" Dís shoved Bomfrís to one side and stared at the raven with terrible eyes. "What is this?"

"Fire in the mountain!" Tuäc said, hopping from clawed foot to clawed foot. "Someone has set fire to the food-stores! The Mountain is burning!"

"My mothers are down there," Jeri said, their face draining.

"And my sons!" Orla growled.

"And Gimizh and Bofur!" said Gimris, white as parchment. "My mother – my father…"

The Stonehelm wrenched his Morningstar in a circle, clearing a small space, before he met Bomfrís' eyes with indecision written all over his expression. "I don't…" he puffed, the blood slipping down the side of his head and dripping through his beard. He swiped his forearm over his face. "I don't know…"

"I shall hold them back," Bard said, stepping forward. "I and my people. Go. Save your home."

Laerophen darted a glance to the King of Dale, before he said, "I shall go with you, King Thorin."

"If you're going to go, then _go,"_ Dís said, and she swung her sword once more. "Get going!"

"Tuäc, stay here with me!" Bomfrís snapped, as fully half the defenders then disappeared from the battlements, swarming back into the Mountain.

This seemed to give the Orcs below new heart after the devastation of Thira's spinning-bola machine, and they renewed their attacks with fervour. New ladders were brought to lean against the Mountainside, and the rain of boulders redoubled.

"They cannot hold!" Thrór said in despair, even as smoke began to pour from the mouth of the River Running, curling into the sky above Erebor. It seemed a ghastly answer to the haze that hovered above Mirkwood.

"What alternative do they have?" said Hrera, helplessly.

* * *

Radagast clung to his hat as the wind whipped his robes in the air, swirling like a maelstrom around the tall figure of Galadriel. She shone like the heart of the sun, even as the darkness around them threatened to swallow her.

"Gwaem!" shouted Celeborn, and he raised his sword high. The green-clad warriors of the Elvenking flanked the Galadhrim in their golden mail. Thranduil's huge stag tossed its antlers before the right column, as Laindawar's buck snorted restlessly at the head of the left. "We do not know what surprises Sauron has left us! Stay close to the Lady Galadriel!"

"Bring it down," Thráin whispered, and Frís' arm tightened around him. "Raze it to the ground."

"Leithio i philinn!" Thranduil called, and the short, strong-limbed bows of the Greenwood tipped back, steel glinting in the radiance of the Lady. "Gurth enin goth!"

"On my mark!" Celeborn said, and held his sword forward. In eerie unison, the Elves of Lothlórien followed in the wake of the Elvenking's arrows, pushing through the ruined gates. They were greeted by Orcs who yammered and howled as they came, some of them skewered through with arrows and some already dead. "No quarter!" Celeborn hollered over their dreadful din.

All the while, Galadriel walked through the fighting. Her sword she held loosely in one hand, blood idly dripping from its tip. Her hair was bound in a coronet atop her head, making her appear crowned in gold and silver. Her pace never faltered.

When Orcs looked upon her eyes, they quailed in terror and drew away.

"Khamûl!" she said, and the air glowed around her. Thráin cried out as her voice hammered into his head. Lóni gritted his teeth together, his eyes watering, and he gripped onto Frár's hand all the more tightly. "Khamûl, come forth from your stinking lair and face me!"

"Mell nín," Celeborn said under his breath, pausing between sword-strokes. Fear danced in his eyes for a split second, before a spider was rushing him.

With a howl, Laindawar rode his buck into the fray, pressing the animal's flank up against the spider and trapping it upon the crumbling fortress wall. He hewed at it with savage strokes, and its head went bouncing away. "Are you injured?" he demanded, panting hard, as the buck danced upon slim nervous legs.

"Nay," Celeborn said, and he looked beyond the Prince at his wife. She still moved untouched into the citadel, her dress clinging like starlight to the ground. "I thank you for the timely rescue."

Laindawar gave a curt nod, and reached out to grasp Celeborn's arm and haul him upright. "We will wipe this filth from our woods, once and for all," he bit out, and wheeled his buck back into the uproar.

"He really doesn't like Orcs or spiders much, does he," Radagast commented, twiddling his little finger in his ear and withdrawing a long-legged insect. "They like to pretend they're made of wax, this Mirkwood lot, but scratch them just a little and you'll find a very different sort of creature."

Celeborn steadied himself and began to stagger after Galadriel. "Stay with the lady!" he called out to his people, who were struggling to make it past the outer bailey. All manner of loathsome creatures barred their way from following Galadriel, and the forest still shrilled and rang like a strung bell. The wind was touched with a foul reek, and it blew hard into the faces of the Elves and they cried out in horror and anger.

"No! Hold your ground!" Thranduil roared. He was on foot, his stag nowhere to be seen, and even as he spoke he cut down a nightmarish Orc with terrible fangs. His winter crown was askew, his white hair streaked with blood. "We deal with these! Galadriel faces a foe that only she can defeat!"

"But-" Celeborn's face actually twisted, and Lóni gripped all the tighter at Frár's hands. His fingers were beginning to feel numb, but he did not dare let go.

"Khamûl!"

The voice of Galadriel echoed back from the dead rock, and Thráin shivered uncontrollably.

With that terrible scream of despair, a hooded figure coalesced out of thin air upon the stump of a shattered tower. In its mailed hands were a thin, toothlike dagger, and a heavy flat sword. The faceless hood swung to where Galadriel walked alone in the inner bailey, a single shining figure, small and brave.

" _Ssshe-Elf,"_ said the Nazgûl, and the sword leapt into flame. " _My masssster has long-wisssshhhed for your head as a prize."_

Galadriel's beautiful face was serene, and her eyes glowed ever more fiercely. "Thy leader is destroyed," she said. The ring upon her finger pulsed ever faster, the heart of it too intense to look upon. "I felt him leave the world. Second of Nine thou wast, but soon there shall be only seven. For dead thou art, and only death awaits thee."

" _You shhhould have stayed cowering in your treess,_ " the Nazgûl said, and with a flurry of ragged black robes, it was upon her.

"I can't watch…!" Lóni gasped, but he could not tear his eyes away either. He could hear Thráin's breath coming harsh and wet.

Galadriel's sword clashed against the Ringwraith's, and she moved with astonishing swiftness around him to strike the next blow at his left side – the dagger-side. The Nazgûl screeched and spun around, and the awful burning sword whistled by her face. She bent back easily, before flowing underneath his grasping arms and holding up her hand before the empty hood. A burst of blinding starlight came from the ring upon her finger, and the Nazgûl staggered back. The Orcs and spiders still clustered around the ruined bailey moaned in terror.

"They cannot bear the light!" shouted Laindawar.

"Of course they cannot," said Galadriel calmly, and she whirled once more to hold the Nazgûl at swords-length. "Darkness cannot exist in the presence of light."

The burning sword came up to shear straight through her blade. " _You will die ssllowly,"_ the Nazgûl promised her cruelly, enjoying every word.

"No, that is not my fate," she corrected him as he levelled his sword at her unprotected throat. "I shall diminish, and dwindle, and never again be as I was. Respite awaits me beyond the shores of this land, and it matters not whether I travel by blade or boat. Oh, but _thou_. Thou shalt dissipate and dissolve, as all shadows do. With the last of my strength, I will destroy thee."

The Nazgûl hissed in contempt, and drew back his sword in order to stab her where she stood.

"Meleth!" Celeborn howled, but Thranduil caught him around the waist and growled into his ear.

"She has drawn him out, and now he is within her reach! He thinks himself the victor! Do not distract her!"

"I have seen such light," Galadriel said softly. "I have seen glory in the Gardens of Tirion, and love in grey eyes, and hope carried in the smallest hands. I have seen such light…" Then she inhaled as the sword-stroke came plummeting down.

With a clap of shattering thunder, her arms flung outwards, and radiance sprang from her as though she was a new-born sun. The Nazgûl was flung asunder, staggering away from her.

"You who were once Khamûl, Shadow of the East, you shall hear me! I am Galadriel and Nerwen and Artarnis and Alatáriel, and you have no name hence. Death has waited for you too long. I cast you out! These stones shall be cleaned of your stain at last, spawn of darkness, servant of lies!"

The Nazgûl jerked back as though struck, and then began to twist like a fish caught on a line.

"To the void with you and all your works!" Galadriel boomed, the sound shattering, and her hand could barely be seen as her Ring etched every angle and fallen stone in shades of white and grey. The trees beyond the fortress whipped and tossed, their branches caught in that overwhelming and otherworldly power. "Your master shall join you hence. Begone!"

  
  
Galadriel destroys Khamûl, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/137349563365/to-the-void-with-you-and-all-your-works)  


The Nazgûl screamed, and the burning sword clattered to the ground. The mailed hands clutched at the empty hood.

"Begone!" Galadriel commanded again. Thranduil still clutched tightly to Celeborn, but he no longer sought to hold him back. Rather they were holding themselves fast against the inexorable power of the Ring of Adamant. Their long silvery hair lashed and flailed in the torrent.

Lóni couldn't help it: he began to scream. He could dimly hear Frár and Frís as well, and the shrieks and moans of the Orcs. Still the oppressive sound of the Elf-woman's voice grew and grew and grew, until it was the loudest sound in the world, eclipsing all else. "Begone!" she said once more, and the air warped and rent around her.

"Yes!" Thráin howled in exultation, as the crumbling towers of Dol Guldur began to topple. "Yes!"

Galadriel was nigh-impossible to see inside her blazing corona of energy, but still Lóni got the impression that she was mustering her strength for one last push.

"You have no power here!" she said, and the words reverberated back to them over and over, echoing all around the collapsing fortress.

With a tearing, unearthly sound, the fire that danced in her eyes and upon her hand suddenly slammed into the Nazgûl with the force of a battering ram. It poured and poured from her, lashing at the wraith with ropes of pure power, screaming and buckling as it went. Cries of terror arose from the remaining Orcs, who fled out into the trees from the painful, pure brilliance.

With a pitiful wail, the cloaked and hooded figure collapsed in on itself. The ragged black robes fell to the ground, empty.

What was left of the ruin of Dol Guldur slowly folded in upon itself, as though the work of Ages was compressed into mere moments before their eyes. The stone weathered and wore away into dust, and the dust blew away in the tempest and was gone.

The sudden silence sucked all the breath out of the watchers, yawning and hollow, their ears ringing and their eyes stinging. Through tears, Lóni made out the tall shape of Galadriel wilting where she stood.

Celeborn struggled against Thranduil's arms, crying out wordlessly. The Elvenking stepped back and released him, and the Lord of Lothlórien stumbled over the blackened and newly-bare earth to where his wife lay senseless and reeling. "Speak to me," he choked, and turned her over to cup her face with his hand. "Meleth nín, mell nín…!"

A movement caught Lóni's attention, and he saw the Wizard coming forward to kneel by Celeborn's side. "Let me," he said, and his ancient eyes were clear and determined.

Celeborn looked up at him in desperation for a wordless moment, and then he nodded. He laid Galadriel's head upon his lap, and took her hand in his own. Her eyelids flickered, and her eyes were unfocused.

Radagast bent his head, and his gnarled old fingers smoothed over the flawless skin of her face and brow. His eyebrows drew together in concentration. Then Galadriel's chest rose in a deep breath, and she murmured, "is it done?"

"Yes, my Lady," Radagast said, and he bowed to her where he knelt. "There can be no returning. Dol Guldur is destroyed for all time."

She sighed soundlessly, and her eyes opened. No sign of the infinite white glow remained, only her usual starlit blue. "I am tired," she managed, and then she lifted her hand to touch Celeborn's cheek. "Ah, do not weep. This has cost me, but not nearly as much as we feared."

  
  
Galadriel and Celeborn, by [actualmermaid](http://actualmermaid.tumblr.com/post/137397751744/galadriel-and-celeborn-after-galadriel-utterly)  


"Whatever vermin are left have fled towards the North," Laindawar said, stepping forward as he cleaned off his sword with a piece of his torn cloak. "They make towards the Misty Mountains, no doubt."

"Excuse _you_ , don't call them vermin, that's an insult to vermin everywhere," Radagast said peevishly.

Laindawar's expression did not flicker. "We will pursue them. Adar?"

Thranduil straightened, and he lifted an elegant hand. "Gurth an Glamhoth."

Laindawar pressed a hand against his chest, and bowed to them all in turn (reserving a last aloof look for Radagast as he did so), before he wheeled on one heel and began curtly snapping out a few orders. The bedraggled and dazzled Elves shook themselves and came alert at their Prince's command. As silently as they had appeared, the Elves of the Greenwood melted back into the trees, their green tunics rendering them invisible in moments.

"Rude sod," Radagast sniffed.

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched, just a little. "He has been fighting for weeks, often beyond any hope of communication or rescue. I ask that you forget and forgive him his short temper."

Radagast blinked and then squinted up at Thranduil. "Forgive who again?"

That actually surprised a laugh out of the Elvenking, though it was sour and rusty. He looked up at the vast stretch of night sky that had been revealed by the destruction of the glowering fortress, and he said, "the stars are bright tonight."

"I can hear them," Galadriel said, her voice faint and weary. "They sing more clearly tonight than they have in long years."

"Would you _look_ at this dirty great hole," Galion said, kicking at the black dust. "Nothing shall grow here."

"That's what _you_ think," Radagast retorted, and he got to his feet with a groan and a muffled curse. Then he breathed in through his nose and planted his staff into the ruined earth.

Nothing happened, and a chittering sound came from inside his shabby robes. "Oh of course," Radagast said, embarrassed, and he took an odd lavender-coloured crystal from inside the brim of his lop-eared hat. "Thank you, Reggie."

Setting the crystal into the branches of his staff, the Wizard then smiled. "Now, we shall see what we shall see…"

The silence descended again, and Lóni could feel his heart beating, could feel Frár's pulse in the hand he still clutched in nerveless fingers. The call of a night-bird resounded from some distance away.

Then a tiny finger of green pushed itself up through the carpet of black rubble, followed by another. Delicate creeping vines stole over the heaps of crumbled rock, daintily picking their way with their curling fronds. The smell of earth began to overpower the scent of decay.

"This place shall be purified," Radagast said, and he lifted his palm to the skies.

As though stretching after a long and restful sleep, small saplings began to rise out of the ground. Grasses and flowers clustered thickly around their bases as they swelled and rose, swaying gently, their branches extending towards the star-filled night.

"Do you see, beloved?" Celeborn whispered, and he stroked back Galadriel's sweat-soaked golden hair. It was coming unbound from its coronet.

"I never thought to see such things again," she murmured. "I thought those Ages far behind me."

"And we're all sober, yes?" said Galion dubiously to nobody in particular.

Now fully-grown trees put forth flowers that ripened at once into fruit. Small creatures clambered through the heavy boughs: the grass and ferns bent beneath sweet winds. Where but an hour before had loomed a massive and reeking ruin, now a peaceful wooded dell stood, looped with ivy and dotted with wildflowers. Not a single sign of Dol Guldur was left.

Thráin was weeping without shame, his tears trickling into his beard. "It's gone," he gasped, and he pressed his face into Frís' hair and trembled uncontrollably. "It's gone. It's gone."

His faraway gaze still fixed upon the stars, Thranduil said softly, "A new year begins, my kinsfolk. Peace to you this Yestare."

"And to you, cousin," said Celeborn, amid the nodding of the flowers and the singing of nightingales. "And to you."

* * *

"Pippin!" Gimli roared. "Pippin!"

"Gimli, stay close!" Legolas called. Men screamed, and horses brayed in fear. The Orcs howled in triumph as they came, their faces spilt with unholy glee.

"I can't find Pippin!" Gimli cried, and Thorin could see no sign of the Hobbit either. "He disappeared when the Trolls made their charge, I can't see hide nor hair of the rascal!"

"Watch your back!" Legolas said, and faster than thought he shot the Orc that was aiming a blow at Gimli. "We will find him, meleth, I promise you!" he said, and then he disappeared into the sea of enemies. "I make my count out at thirty-six!"

"Thirty-six?" Gimli said, stopping short and snorting. "Pshaw, you are making that up."

"I barely even need to aim," Legolas' voice came floating back. "There are simply so many."

"Legolas, come back!" Gimli headbutted an Orc, before grabbing its neck and throwing it into the path of another. "Âzyungelê, I cannot see you?"

"Here!"

"I can't see anything, there's too much," Óin said, shaking his head in worry.

"You're worried for the Elf?" murmured Dáin. Óin ignored that.

"I said that where you go, I will follow," Gimli grated. "Don't you make a liar out of me, Legolas!"

The horns of Mordor rang again, and the Nazgûl screamed through the sky, their claws scooping through horses and men, spreading freezing terror in their wake.

"Legolas!" Gimli's howl rang out, but then he was lost even from Thorin's view as the full might of Mordor slammed into the ragged Armies of the West.

The sound was incredible. It was all Thorin could do to overcome his disorientation as Orc after Man after Elf passed through their incorporeal bodies, the whirl of blades and the horrendous shrieking of the dying ringing in his ears.

 _So, this is how it ends._ He spared a thought for Erebor, for Gondor and Rohan, for Rivendell and Mirkwood and the Golden Wood, for the little peaceful Shire. "Defying Sauron to their last breath," he said aloud. Such bravery. Such foolish bravery.

Stepping up to stand beside him, Bilbo slipped his hand next to Thorin's – barely an eyelash apart, yet not touching. "Well now, you're also rather expert at that, too," he said, and smiled tremulously up at him.

"Wait a moment!" he dimly heard Dáin say, in tones of absolute astonishment. "Would you look at that?"

"The Eagles are coming!" sang a high voice, clarion-clear, soaring over the deafening mayhem. "The Eagles are coming!"

* * *

"Ready, aim, FIRE!"

"That's a bad word t'be using right now!" hollered Dwalin.

"Shoot arrows?" suggested Bani.

"Better!"

"Where's the Queen? Where's my _sister?_ " shouted Barís, pushing through the confusion and the throng. "I've got to talk to them! The fire… we need…"

"Thira's inside," Bani said, and she pulled Barís' arm and dragged her into an alcove, away from the battlements. "What in Durin's name are you _doing_ here, Barís? You're not a warrior; you're going to get yourself _killed!"_

Barís gulped several times, her chest heaving. "I have an idea… for the fire."

Bani frowned. "Why not take it to Glóin or the King? They'd be…"

Barís actually _interrupted._ "Because I also need a craftsmaster," and she turned to spot Bomfrís firing from one of the arrow-sconces, "and an archer."

The woodworker's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

Barís grinned. "Does the phrase 'rain of arrows' ring any bells?"

* * *

"Water, water," Sam croaked.

"Nori?" Fíli said, but he knew it was completely hopeless. "Kíli, have you seen any?"

Kíli shook his head. "They haven't had any water since yesterday morning," he said, shifting and fidgeting in worry. "And Sam gave it all to Frodo, in any case…"

"They're nearly there, though," Nori tipped back his head to look at the glowing mouth of Mount Doom. "Getting rid of that Orc-gear did 'em both good."

"But now there's nothing left in the barrel," Fíli muttered, and he crouched down beside Sam. The Hobbit's lips were white and bleeding in the corners, they were that dry. His tongue seemed thick and clumsy as when he spoke:

"Wake up, Mr. Frodo! Time for the last push."

Frodo twitched and jerked, and his eyes rolled behind closed eyelids. Then he jerked awake with a yell of fright, his face full of whatever nightmare had tormented him. Upon seeing Sam, he slumped. "I can't manage it, Sam," he said. "It is such a weight to carry… such a weight."

Sam seemed on the verge of tears, if he had moisture enough left in his little body. He took a resigned breath, and said hesitantly, "then let me carry it a bit for you. You know I would, and gladly, as long as I have any strength."

Frodo's eyes lit up with a wild, feral madness. "Don't touch me! It's mine, _mine_ I say!"

Kíli bit off a whimper.

Then Frodo blinked, and sorrow replaced that terrible light in his eyes. "Oh Sam," he said miserably. "It's too late now, Sam dear. You can't help me in that way again. I am almost in its power now. I could not give it up, and if you tried to take it I should go mad."

Sam closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "I understand, Mr Frodo me dear," he whispered. "Come on. It's not far. Today should see the end of it."

Like two small grey flies, the Hobbits crawled up the side of the massive fire-mountain. The smoke stung their eyes, and their hands were cut from the jagged and cruel rocks.

"Do you remember that bit of rabbit, Mr. Frodo?" Sam rasped, reaching for another hand-hold. "And our place under the warm bank in Captain Faramir's country, the day I saw an oliphaunt?"

Frodo shuddered. "No."

Nori's brows drew together. "No?"

"It is… all like a tale, told about someone else," Frodo said, barely loud enough to be heard. "I know that such things happened, but I cannot see them. No taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower, no image of moon or star are left to me. I am naked in the dark… and there is no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I begin to see it even with my waking eyes, and all else fades."

Sam's head bent upon these words, and he managed to squeeze out two tears of utter hatred. "Then the sooner we're rid of it, the sooner to rest," he said, as brightly as he could.

"I am beginning to hate his hope," Nori muttered. "It's crueller than anything else in this bloody place."

Kíli looked back at Nori steadily. "You'd be amazed at what hope can do."

Nori was the first to look down. "No, I wouldn't," he said darkly.

"Nadad," said Fíli, and he looked up at the cave-mouth, glowing so near. "Can you run ahead?"

"Aye," Kíli said, giving a last look at Nori, before racing up the slope.

Fíli watched as the two Hobbits crawled a little further, before they collapsed in a heap. Sam fumbled for the last packet of waybread, giving the few crumbs to Frodo and going without himself. "He doesn't mean to hurt you," he said eventually.

"Who, Kíli?" Nori seemed surprised that Fíli would even bring it up. "Nah, didn't think he meant it personally. I'm just surprised that anyone's got a hope left, to be honest."

Fíli let his mouth quirk, his moustache-braid swinging, and he nodded at Sam gently cradling Frodo's head, feeding him the last of the food. "There's the inspiration, I suspect."

Nori stared at the two. "I had hopes," he said. "Once."

Fíli glanced back. "You still do, Nori. Else why would you be here?"

Nori had nothing to say to that.

It seemed that Frodo had fallen into a swoon after he had taken food, and Sam tucked the Elven cloak around him and cradled his own knees to his chest. "I didn't ought to have left my blanket behind," he muttered, and peered up at the Mountain. "He's got barely a breath left in his body, and he talks of his own past self like a dream or a dead person."

He tapped his hairy feet against the cooled volcanic slag for a moment, and then he rubbed his dirty hand over his hair. Black dust came pouring out. "The pool at Bywater," he breathed with wistful longing. "Jolly an' Tom an' Nibs Cotton, and Rosie, dancing in the light of the Harvest moon…"

Then he slapped the ground, as though trying to jolt himself out of his mood. "But that was years ago, and far away," he told himself sternly. "You're a fool to go on hoping the way you do. You could have lain down and gone to sleep together days ago, if you hadn't been so dogged. But you'll die just the same, or worse. There's no going back past this Mountain, and you've known it all along."

Nori looked away.

"Well, come now, we've done better than any could have predicted," Sam answered himself sturdily.

"And how long can you go on, with no water and no food?" Sam jabbed a finger into the ground, before he replied, with a touch of defiance, "I can go on a good way though, and I will."

"And then what?" he asked the air.

Sam found to his dismay that he had no answer to this. "The Master will know what to do," he said, and wrapped his arms around his legs again. And I'll get him there, if I leave everything but my bones behind. And I'll carry Mr. Frodo up myself, if it breaks my back and heart. So stop arguing!"

"What's this?" piped a light voice. Fíli glanced down to see Frerin, his blond hair askew, trembling beside him.

"It's nearly time, little uncle," he said. "It's almost upon us."

At that moment, as though answering his words, there was a tremor in the ground, a distant rumble. Frodo stirred.

Sam shivered as he looked back up the mountainside, before he steeled himself and shook Frodo's shoulder. "Now for it! Now for the last gasp!" he said, and smoothed back Frodo's stringy hair.

Frodo's eyes snapped open, huge black pits of horror, half-looking upon some dreadful other world. He groaned, and then he staggered to his knees, before he slumped. "No…" he gasped.

Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes. "I said I'd carry him, if it broke my back," he muttered, "and I will!"

It was at that moment that Kíli came rushing down the slope. "It's just ahead!" he shouted. "You can't see it because of the rise of the lava as it has poured from the door and over the foothills, but they're within stone's throw of the entry! They're nearly there!"

Though it was impossible, it appeared that through some miracle of mercy, a part of Sam heard this. "Come, Mr. Frodo!" he cried. "I can't carry it for you - but I can carry you!"

The three Dwarves stood by as Sam struggled upright, hauling Frodo's limp and lolling body over his sturdy little shoulders. Then Sam took a firm step forward – and another – and another.

Fíli's eyes smarted with sudden wetness, and he bowed his head.

It was while his attention was distracted that a spiderlike shape dropped from a nearby crag and crashed into the two Hobbits. Nori yelled in outrage, and Kíli's hand immediately went to his side where once his sword would have hung. Sam lay dazed for a second.

"Wicked masster!" hissed a familiar, hated voice, and long grasping fingers locked onto Frodo and squeezed. "Wicked masster cheats us; cheats Sméagol, gollum. He musstn't go that way. He musstn't hurt Preciouss. Give it to Sméagol, yess, give it to us! Give it to uss!"

"Sam!" shouted Fíli, and he turned to Kíli. "Get Thorin! Now! Frerin, go and tell Thrór!" Then he grabbed Nori's arm. "Go to the rest! Warn them!"

With a startled look, Nori nodded. "As you say, Highness."

It wasn't until after Nori had gone that Fíli realised that the title had been used in all respect.

Sam managed to heave himself to his feet, even as Kíli, Frerin and Nori flashed away into the starlight. He drew Sting, but Frodo and Gollum were so tightly locked together that he could not strike one without risking the other.

It seemed to Fíli that Frodo's dying heart had been roused at last – and by the only thing that could have yet affected him, a threat to the Ring. He fought with a fury that amazed Fíli, finding some reserve of strength somewhere in his wasted body. Too, Gollum was even more starved and pitiable than the Hobbits, and he lacked his old grasping strength. They kicked and bit at each other, but finally Frodo landed a good blow and rolled away to his feet.

"Back, back!" he gasped, and his hand was tight upon the chain at his neck. "Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom."

Gollum backed away, terror and insatiable lust warring in his eyes.

"He'll spring!" Sam shouted, and he brandished Sting. "Go on, Master! Quick, no time to lose! I'll deal with Stinker here. Go on!"

Frodo paused, before he said, "Farewell, Sam." Then he turned and staggered towards the glowing chamber entrance, weaving upon unsteady feet.

Sam watched him for a moment, before he levelled Sting at Gollum's throat. "Now, at last," he growled.

Gollum did not spring, but curled into a ball and whimpered. His splay-fingered hands clutched around his chest, as though hugging himself in his loneliness.

"Don't kill us," he wept. "Don't hurt us with nassty cruel steel! Let us live, yes, live just a little longer. Lost lost! We're lost. And when Precious goes we'll die, yes, die into the dust."

Fíli's heart teetered. "Damn it," he groaned, and pressed his fingers into his eyes. "I want to say _kill him_ and be done with…"

Sam seemed to be similarly torn. His sword-tip wavered. Finally with a gusty, angry sigh, he let it fall. "Oh, curse you, you stinking thing!" he snapped. "Go away! Be off! I don't trust you, not as far as I could kick you; but be off. Or I _shall_ hurt you, yes, with nasty cruel steel."

Gollum's lamplike eyes grew amazed, and he uncurled a little, watching Sam in astonishment. Then he backed away a little further, only to scamper out of sight when Sam aimed a kick at him.

"Sam Gamgee, where is your master?" Thorin's voice bounced from the stones, and Sam straightened at once, flying up the path as fast as his furry feet could carry him.

Upon entering the Chamber of Sammath Naur, it seemed to Fíli that everything had been dipped in blood. The light was red, the walls were red; even the air seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. Sam fumbled along, his sword-hilt still in his hand, and he coughed as the fumes from the lava below rose and choked him.

"Master?" he cried, and waved his free hand before his face. A tongue of rock leaned out over the fire-pit, and Sam stumbled towards it, still coughing. "Mr Frodo? Master, me dear, where are you?"

"I'm here, Sam."

Fíli squinted. There, black against the redness, stood Frodo at the brink of the chasm. He stood with the chain in his hand, as though he had been turned to stone.

"Do it!" Sam shouted. "Now!"

Frodo did not move.

"Oh, please," Thorin whispered.

"What are you waiting for? Just let it go!" Sam pleaded.

Frodo turned. The torment in his eyes was gone. He smiled, and it was a red gash in his face.

"I have come," he said. "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"

"No!" Sam screamed, and Frodo's smile became beatific as he slid the Ring upon his finger and vanished from sight.

Then the sudden overwhelming weight of the Eye was upon them, and Fíli howled as the will of Sauron abruptly knocked him to the floor. To one side he could hear Thorin breathing raggedly, and Kíli was whimpering.

"No," sobbed Sam, but he was struck violently in the back and his legs were knocked out from under him as something small and fleet went rushing past.

"Gollum," said Fíli through numb lips.

"They need…" Thorin croaked, "they need time…"

"The Eye," Kíli managed, and he reached for Thorin with shaking hands. "I can't… move…"

"Sauron finally knows the magnitude of his own folly," said Thorin, mastering himself. He pushed up onto his hands and knees, before slowly standing. "All his thought is bent upon this place now."

**YOU SHALL NOT STAND BETWEEN THE RING AND ITS MASTER…**

Fíli screamed and clamped his hands over his ears.

Thorin braced his shoulders as through walking into a snowstorm, his eyes squinting and his hand raised against the overwhelming compulsion in that voice.

**YOU ARE AS NOTHING BEFORE THE LORD OF THE RINGS, HOW DARE YOU, PITIFUL DEAD THING**

**YOU COULD HAVE BEEN GREAT, DOHYARZIRIKHAB**

**YOU COULD HAVE…**

**STAND ASIDE!**

Thorin rocked back on his heels, and gasped, "No. Though your Eye may pass through me, your full will cannot reach them. I will bear the brunt, and spare them that."

**YOU ARE BUT ONE DEAD DWARF**

**YOU ARE AS NOTHING**

**MOVE, NOW, AND I SHALL SHOW YOU MERCY**

"Lies," Thorin wheezed, and the tendons showed clearly on his neck as he writhed beneath the full weight of the Eye.

Then there were two. A faint outline, to be sure, but Fíli could make out someone short, and small, and curly-haired, standing beside Thorin.

"Who's that?" Kíli managed, and Fíli's teeth bared in a savage grin.

_Bilbo._

**YOU! YOU, HOARDER OF MEMORIES, YOU WHO BURIED THE RING IN REGRET! I KNOW YOU! LIAR OF THE SHIRE!**

The shadowy silhouette bent over, as though crumpling beneath that gaze. Then it slowly straightened as Bilbo found his defiance.

"The dead and the dying," Thorin croaked, and he drew himself up to his fullest height. "But we shall bar your gaze, if we can."

  
  
The dead and the dying, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/142822001235/the-dead-and-the-dying-but-we-shall-bar-your)  


  
  
The dead and the dying, by [cloudvelundr](http://cloudvelundr.tumblr.com/post/147776097599)  


"Master!" Sam howled, and Fíli looked back. There he saw a strange and terrible thing – Gollum was fighting like a maddened cat with an unseen foe, right on the lip of the chasm of fire. Closer and closer he edged, hissing and biting and dragging and spitting. The lava spat and bubbled as though in answer, the light blazing in anger.

All the while the Eye pressed its will down, down, down upon them.

Then Gollum's head bent, his teeth gnawing upon something hard. There was a cry of pain, and Frodo appeared, clutching his hand to his breast and falling to the ground.

"Precious!" Gollum rejoiced, and he held the Ring high. A finger was still caught in its circle, which glowed in that red light, more beautifully and more golden than it had ever done. "Precious, precious, precious!" Gollum sang, drunk with joy. "My Precious! O my Precious!"

Sam crawled to Frodo, who was trying to get to his feet again to go after the thief… "Master! No!"

Gollum danced like a mad thing, gloating over his prize. His eyes were lifted to the Ring as he misstepped. There was a moment in which he seemed to hang, teetering upon the brink. But then he toppled, and with a final wail of _precious...!_

...he was gone.

* * *

Galadriel suddenly sat upright, clutching the silvery ring at her finger. "Can it be," she breathed, even as Celeborn looked on in wonderment.

* * *

"The birds are fleeing!" Dwalin shouted from his place upon Erebor's battlements. "The carrion-birds are fleeing! What does it mean?"

* * *

The ground shook and rolled, as though heaving. Gimli watched on in stunned amazement as the Towers of the Teeth began to crumble at the base. Orcs ran shrieking as their world began to topple. Within moments there was no sign of where the Morannon had been. A great hole in the ground had swallowed it without trace.

* * *

Narvi watched the Tower of Barad-Dûr fall, and bittersweet tears filled her eyes.

"At last," she whispered.

* * *

"Master?" Sam quavered, as the lava spat and frothed all around them.

"Well, this is the end, Sam Gamgee," said a voice by his side, and it was Frodo, and he was himself once more. He smiled at Sam, weary to be sure, but without that dreadful pain or light in his eyes.

Sam let out a sob. "Your poor hand! And I have nothing to bind it with, or comfort it. I would have spared him a whole hand of mine rather."

"Well, he's gone now," Frodo said, and he looked back at the Crack of Doom. "But do you remember what Gandalf said?"

Fili heard Thorin say, in a voice that was rather too intimate to be overheard, "the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many."

Then his uncle grinned, carefree and entirely too pleased with himself, as though he had just been reprimanded by a cross, fussy little Hobbit.

Frodo tipped his head to rest against Sam's, and together they clung to the side of Orodruin as the world came to ruin all around them. "But for him, Sam, I could not have destroyed the Ring," he whispered. "The Quest would have been in vain, even at the bitter end. So let us forgive him! For the Quest is achieved, and now all is over."

"It's over," Sam repeated.

"It's done," Frodo said, and he kissed Sam's brow. "I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam.'

* * *

.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **KHUZDUL**  
>  Sanmelek – Perfect (true/pure) half  
> Nârûnuh – My Champion  
> gamil bâhûn – old friend  
> Bizarûnh- Men of Dale  
> Idmi – welcome  
> Melhekhel – King of all Kings  
> Ghivasha - treasure  
> Mahumb – droppings  
> Dohyarzirikhab – Anvil of Hope  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-mere  
> Âzyungelê – love of all loves  
> Ghivashelê – my treasure of all treasures  
> Kurdulê – my heart  
> Ma ikhyij thaiku khama nurt ze' suruj - Don't close the mine for one empty day (Don't overreact.)  
> Sansûkhâl - the one who sees with perfect/pure sight
> 
>  **BLACK SPEECH**  
>  Dâgalûr – Demon
> 
>  **SINDARIN**  
>  Yestare – Last day of the Elves' year, Elvish New Year's Eve.  
> Daro! – halt!  
> Man le carel sí? – What are you doing here?  
> No dirweg! – Be watchful!  
> Leithio i philinn! – Release the arrows!  
> Gurth enin goth! – Death to the enemy!  
> Gwaem – Let's go!  
> Meleth nín – my love  
> Mell nín – my beloved  
> Gurth an Glamhoth – death to the orcs!  
> Mi van me - Where are we?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Nessa - The spouse of Tulkas and sister to Oromë, who delights in dancing on the green lawns of Valimar.
> 
> Thranduil and Celeborn met in the forest upon April 6, according to Appendix B of LOTR.
> 
> Khamûl – once a mortal man, he was second of the Ringwraiths after the Witchking of Angmar. When he lived, he ruled in Rhûn. According to one version of the notes, Khamûl was stationed at Dol Guldur after the fall of the Witchking, and was eventually defeated by the Elvish forces.
> 
> The Battle Under the Trees – was not a true battle, but more of an ongoing guerrilla war. Lothlorien was assaulted three times, and Thranduil's forces were constantly under attack.
> 
> Some lines taken from the films, and from the chapters, "The Black Gate Opens" and "Mount Doom".
> 
> …
> 
> _Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! It is thanks to your kind words and kudos that I keep slogging through this behemoth :)_


	41. Chapter Forty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hello wonderful folks! As always, I can be found every so often on[tumblr](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/), (work and parenting permitting!!!!)_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _PLUS -[here is the amazingly incredible stupendous STAGGERINGLY ENORMOUS Sansukh Masterpost](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sans%C3%BBkh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost), linking to all art, music, writing and podfic!_
> 
> _Thank you SO much. Every one. Each kudos or review adds fuel to my tank, and I am so grateful. Thank you._
> 
> **note: I have not yet added mouse-over text to this chapter, due to time constraints. I will get it done tonight!**

The mouth of the forge was aglow with the light of galaxies. The hammer fell in rhythm with the primordial song. With each hammer-blow, the air trembled and shook, and the earth resounded with subterranean thunder.

And then it stopped. Silence fell, absolute and suffocating, sucking all sound and air from the workroom. The great Smith paused as though he were struck by some unseen blow. His terrible eyes squeezed shut.

"Farewell, my promising student," he whispered. "Your fire was warm and bright ere it became corrupted, foul and dark. Would that you had not come to this. Goodbye, Mairon."

* * *

There is a pause at the end of every battle, a split second of stillness, before the whole world seems to exhale. Before the battle is the inhale, the peak of dread, the dull rattling pressure of the heartbeat in the ears, the swoop in the pit of the belly. During, it is the terror and thunder of battle and the hot-coursing blood in the veins, the shrieking will to live, moment by moment by moment. After, the stillness and the weariness, the sudden hush and the heavy heart and the leaden step.

The moment passes from battle to _what happens next_ without a horn call or a banner held high: no grand signal declares a victory. The battlefield is not won all at once, but in increments. Like a wave washing and eroding at a shore, the pause steals over the warriors one by one, and the world exhales.

Time slows and takes on that dreamy, half-sick, syrupy quality. The world breathes again, _inhale-to-exhale, battle-to-after_ , and those who have survived are able to lift their heads and see what remains.

Thorin looked out over the ruin of Mordor as it disintegrated before his eyes, heaving and churning and crumbling, and held his breath.

"The Eagles are coming," said Bilbo softly.

"The Eagles," Thorin whispered, and the stars rose in his eyes until all he could see was white.

  
  
  
  
the eagles are coming, the world is breathing, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/142926443220/time-slows-and-takes-on-that-dreamy-half-sick)  


* * *

_the world inhales_

"Can't understand it at all," Dwalin said, scratching at his bald head. "What are all them birds so excited about, do you think?

"Probably – oof! – about all the free nosh we're providing 'em with!" Glóin bellowed, taking off an Orc's head. "What're you woolgathering for?"

"He's not wrong, they're acting mighty oddly," Bombur said, staring out over the battlements to where the birds eddied and clustered in an oddly joyous display, high over Mirkwood. "Birds don't normally act that way, do they?"

"You're better off asking Óin," Balin replied, but he was frowning at the birds as well.

Then suddenly a horn rang out from below, and the milling, fighting, squabbling Orcs muddled about in confusion, their eyes darting this way and that. There was a moment of sheer bedlam as the besiegers jostled each other, voices raised in sheer amazement and horror, before the army drew back slightly from the walls of the Mountain.

"What in Durin's name is goin on?" Dwalin growled, hefting his axe and striding for a vantage point. "Why're they falling back?"

The cacophony became moans and mutters as the Orcs and Easterlings seemed to sag all at once. Balin looked at Bifur and Bombur, who stared back at him, equally lost.

"Um," came a voice from below. "Hello?"

"Not quite Dâgalûr's style, this one," muttered Dís. "What? Why have you stopped?"

"… don't you know?"

Together, Dwalin and Dís peered out over the edge to see a tall Easterner, face full of trepidation, holding a spear in one trembling hand. Her chin was set in a stubborn line and her carriage was proud, but her eyes were full of fatalistic resignation. "Know what?" Dís barked at her.

There was another ripple of confusion amongst the armies below. The self-appointed spokeswoman lifted her face in one smooth motion, her hand tight around the haft of her spear.

"Do you mock us?"

"You're talking in riddles," Dwalin grunted. "Speak plain, or you'll eat one of our arrows."

"The Dark Tower," said an Orc in a snuffling, snarling voice. The other Orcs cowered at once at the words. "It's fallen."

" _WHAT?"_ Balin gripped onto Bifur's shoulder to steady himself. "Wait, are they…"

Dwalin remained stony-faced and immobile, but Dís' eyes widened. "The Dark…"

"He is fallen," confirmed another Orc. The others whimpered and there were one or two howls. "The Eye is no longer on us. Curse them and beat them, they have gutted us!"

"I'll gut _you_ for sayin' such filth, you liar!" hissed another, and a nice little fight broke out even as the Dwarves stared in dumbfounded amazement.

"It can't be true," Dís whispered.

The Easterling chieftain gave her a steady, unflinching look. "It is true."

"The birds," Bifur said in a weak voice. "Mi targê."

Dwalin wrenched himself out of his shocked paralysis with a gusty sound and a violent shake of his head. Then he fixed the Chieftain with his one good eye and asked bluntly, "so why the hell are you lot still here?"

The Chieftain blinked. Silence stretched, broken only by the fierce cries of the distant birds.

Then she raised her spear to her forehead, tapping its grip to her hairline. It was a strangely ceremonial and respectful gesture from someone who had sacked Dale and had done their level best to ruin Erebor.

She then cast her spear onto the ground in one smooth throw, and without a second glance down at it she turned upon her heel and began to push back through the densely-packed army. Nearly one-third of the Easterlings amongst the besiegers followed suit, following her away from the Mountain and towards the trade road over the great red desert.

Towards the East.

"Got any food?" Bombur yelled after them.

"Well, I'm not giving up!" sneered an Orc. "We've nearly got 'em, we can have their fat rich little kingdom and live like the Great Goblin every day if we stick it out, with no Eye to tell us _no_ or _can't_ or _which way_ or _build that._ I'm gonna-"

The Orc was promptly punched in the mouth by another, and more descended upon the loudmouth even as the armies began to fray at the edges. Orcs began to stream for the North, heading for the Grey Mountains no doubt.

"Looks like they're doing our job for us," said Dwalin. "Spose we can all go on holiday now."

Orla ripped off her helm and pushed a hand over her sweaty forehead and hair. "That was unexpected," was all she said. Dís gave her a sour look.

"There's a time an' a place for brevity, and this isn't it," she said. "What was that business with the spear about? We could have shot her in the back."

Orla gave her friend a small restrained smile. "It's a matter of respect and honour. She was acknowledging our victory. That clan will not return."

Despite himself, Balin was intrigued. The East and its peoples were a mystery to him, and he had never heard the close-mouthed taciturn Orla speak so openly about her birthplace before.

"The others?" Dwalin leaned forward again to watch the mass-retreat, great snaking lines of people walking determinedly away from the Mountain. "Will they stay and keep fighting?"

  
  
Orla watches the Easterlings retreat, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/144054758925/orla-watches-the-easterlings-retreat-91-getting)  


Orla shrugged one shoulder. "Perhaps. The Orcs will not flee so readily, I think. I cannot speak for the Men. Some peoples lived longer under the sway of Sauron's cult than others. I can say this: they will not welcome our intervention nor our policy. The West has not always done well by the East. Let them be. Their numbers will disintegrate, and they cannot breach our walls."

"But they came here to kill us!" said Dís, her lips curling back from her teeth. "They destroyed Dale! They killed Brand! They slaughtered our King, Dáin my cousin!"

"And Bombur," Glóin said harshly. "I won't be forgettin' the look on my grandson's face in a hurry."

"And yet we stand, and yet we won." Orla tugged at her drenched collar, and pulled a face. "I need a shower."

"Best wait. I hear the Mountain's on fire," Dwalin said, and he lifted his eye again to where the birds wheeled in that unrestrained dance of joy. "Our job's not done yet."

"No rest for the wicked," Orla murmured.

* * *

_the earth holds its breath, for a moment, just a moment_

"Pippin!" Gimli stumbled over the battlefield, his voice carrying over the shrieks of the wounded and the screams of the fleeing Orcs. "Pippin! Mahal curse it, you wool-brained little pesk, please be living, please be hale and well, you have cost me too many pains to die now!" He turned over a great grey Orc's body with an almighty shove and a curse, but found no Hobbit beneath. "Pippin!"

"Meleth, he is nowhere to be seen upon the Eastern flanks," Legolas said, close behind. He had not once left the Dwarf's side since finding him unharmed amidst the wrack and ruin of Mordor. "Surely he will have found a store of provision somewhere. We will find him smoking and drinking at the supply wagons, you may be sure."

"That was the first place I checked," Gimli said, frustrated, and he kicked the Orc's body with a growl. "Pippin!"

Legolas' eyes grew soft. "He will be well," he said, and laid a hand on Gimli's shoulder.

"Aye, until I get my hands on him, he will be," Gimli said, and he roughly dashed at his eyes and brow. "Your eyes are better than mine, ghivashelê. You could see nothing?"

Legolas turned to peer out at the desolate, silent ruin that was the remains of all Mordor's might. "I can see the fallen Tower and the Mountain of Fire that still belches its smoke everywhere. I see the bodies of Men and Elves, horses and Trolls and Orcs, all lying where they fell. I see the silhouette of Eagles upon the sky, the shine of the stars beyond the Mountain's fume that now begins to pierce through at long last…"

"In other words, you see everything," sighed Gimli, and he patted Legolas' hand consolingly. "Everything except one dratted fool of a Took. Tis a damned good thing we know the look of a Hobbit's foot. Do you recall where he was fighting?"

"He flew ahead as fast as his furry feet would carry him," said Legolas, and he dropped to his knees and pulled Gimli's helm from his head, pressing their grimy foreheads together. "I did not see him."

Gimli's eyes closed and he breathed out slowly. "I will not lose him, young stout-hearted little rascal," he said, almost soundlessly. "This should be a field of victory, and yet…"

"I feel it also," Legolas said, and he kissed Gimli with feather-light swiftness. "We have won – but now we also count our losses, and they are great indeed. We will turn towards a new age, and with it we will farewell much that was beautiful and sorrowful in the old."

"Elvish and cryptic, as always," Gimli said, and he carded a hand through Legolas' hair, and kissed him again. "Come, let us keep searching, before this New Age of yours grows any older."

"It may have been the clamour of battle playing tricks with my ears, but perhaps it was his voice shouting near where the Men of Rohan made their stand. Something about Eagles?"

"Well, you could have said so earlier!" Gimli exclaimed. He gripped Legolas' hand tightly and dragged him from his knees and towards the crumbled heap that had been the northernmost Tower of the Teeth. "The Horse-Lords were over here, I think…"

"They held the line to the centre, I thought," Legolas said, caught in Gimli's wake.

"No, to the right," Gimli repeated stubbornly, and he tucked his helm under his arm and pushed at a fallen horse with one booted foot. "You see?"

"One horse does not an Éored make," Legolas said dryly, but he was cut off by Gimli's soft gasp. The Dwarf was stock-still, before he dropped Legolas' hand and broke into a run, sprinting as fast as he was able across the churned earth to the corpse of a gigantic troll.

Gimli dropped helm and axe onto the ground, before he pushed with all his strength at the beast's body. "Help me!" he shouted, before he redoubled his efforts, the muscles in his neck cording under the strain. "He's underneath!"

Legolas was a breath behind him, and together they managed to lift the Troll high enough. Then Gimli turned and took all the weight upon his back, while Legolas crawled underneath upon his belly. He inched back out, a small, muddied and limp body cradled in his arms. The fine Gondorian livery was spattered with blood as well as mud, and the hair was matted and filthy upon one side of the bright curly head.

"Shuf!" Gimli let the Troll fall, and rolled his shoulders back. His neck clicked as he tipped his head. "Is he all right? Does he breathe? Tell me he yet breathes!"

"He breathes, but sluggishly," Legolas said softly. "None of his bones are broken, but I cannot tell what else he may have suffered. He needs Gandalf, or Aragorn. If he felled this beast, then he has indeed achieved the mighty deed he so desired."

"I will carry him," Gimli said, a stubborn look in his eye. Legolas obviously thought better of it than to argue, and gently laid the Hobbit in Gimli's great arms. Gimli carried the little fellow as though he were his own kin, carefully cradling him close to his chest.

"Where is Gandalf, anyway?" he asked as Legolas led them back across the field of war to where the army gathered together, victorious and yet solemn, for so many of them had not lived to see this victory.

"He left upon the back of a giant Eagle," Legolas said, and he glanced back across the terrible dark plain, past the shattered gates, to the smoking fire in the distance. "He goes to Orodruin."

"Mahal tadnani astû," Gimli murmured, and he held Pippin's little frame more closely. "They would have been standing…"

"They must have been right on top of it," Legolas said, grim and sad. "To the wagons."

Gimli looked down at Pippin as they trudged through the mire, and then he sighed soundlessly. Then he glanced up at Legolas, his expression slightly deliberating. "You know," he said, almost conversationally, "now we get to do everything we said we would. Fangorn and the Glittering Caves await!"

"As do our peoples," Legolas said, and he sent a small wry smile down at the Dwarf. "We get to deal with that as well."

"Ah, so we do." Gimli winced a little, and then sighed. "Well, there's nothing else for it, âzyungelê. I will not hide my love, nor will I run from my people. The price of winning, we might say."

"A price, or a prize?" Legolas countered, and he laid a gentle hand on Gimli's shoulder and squeezed. "We have yet to discover what this new Age will bring. But so long as it brings you, I will be content with it."

"Not sure how they're likely to react if we simply show up together and announce it," Gimli said, and gave Legolas another considering look. "What you do think?"

Legolas grimaced. "I feel that it has the potential to go terribly, horribly wrong. I do not feel it would be fair to my family or to you, to put you all in such a position. Shock and fear can make a temper stretch to breaking."

"Too true," Gimli sighed. "Nobody likes to have bad news sprung upon them."

A faint frown touched Legolas' face. "You are not bad news, meleth nîn."

"From your mouth to Gimrís' ears. Not to mention your father's. There's Aragorn!" Gimli began to walk faster over the churned earth, but he was careful not to jostle his burden. "Aragorn, laddie! I've found our rascal, but he needs your help…"

Aragorn was surrounded by soldiers and his counsellors, all discussing in quiet stunned voices together. It seemed that none could quite comprehend the sheer magnitude of what had just happened. Soon the realisation would sink in, and then the celebrations would begin – but for the meanwhile, the air was hushed and fragile. The King turned at Gimli's call, and he had hardly taken the sight in at all before he was sliding down from his horse and striding over to the pair. Kneeling in the mud, heedless of his mail and finery, Aragorn smoothed a hand down Pippin's small round face. "I have nearly exhausted my store of Athelas, but I will do what I can with what remains," he said.

Then he glanced up between Gimli and Legolas, and said, "it's good to see that you are both whole. I was worried."

Gimli made a rude sound in his throat, but Legolas just smiled. "And you."

Aragorn moved as though to take the Hobbit from Gimli, but the Dwarf tightened his arms around him and shook his head. "I'll carry him. As far as needed. Where do we camp?"

Aragorn looked back at where Eomer and Imrahil waited, and suppressed a sigh. "There is some argument. But I wish to move away from the sight of this black gate and sorry land, and to seek greener and more peaceful sights. I would have as much of the wilderness as I can, before…"

Gimli's face softened. "Ah."

Legolas tilted his head, and there was understanding in his eyes as he said, delicately, "Ithilien is close."

"And it is green still," Aragorn agreed. "Ithilien is where I shall strike for. We have many wounded and weary, and it may take some days. Will you walk that whole stretch, Master Dwarf, or may I carry our young hero upon my horse?"

Gimli looked down at Pippin, before conceding with a grunt. "He wouldn't fit on Arod, I suppose."

"And you would not ride elsewhere," said Aragorn, and a half-smile crossed his features. "Not for all the world and the crown of Durin itself."

"Course not." Gimli very reluctantly handed over the small, limp body, and Legolas stepped nearer to him. It seemed to Aragorn that Gimli's anxious worry was in some part being grounded by the Elf. They traded the roles of comforter and comforted so effortlessly now that it was entirely wordless and nigh-imperceptible. "Do your best then, laddie. I thought, when we heaved that troll off his poor little frame, that he must be-" he cut off his words with a snap and a swallow, and his great hands reached out involuntarily, as though to take Pippin back.

Aragorn felt over the pale, dirt-streaked brow, and then nodded. "He will be well again. He will wake in a matter of hours. Though the difficulty will be to keep him abed. He needs quiet, and rest."

Legolas looked up at the Lords of the West where they milled, waiting for the King. "I doubt that he shall find much of that, where you are."

Aragorn restrained a grimace. "Perhaps not. Imrahil and Eomer both vie for my attention constantly. They mean only the best, but I am not used to such demands upon me. My days of solitude rapidly draw to a close, my friends."

"Well, that's no good for an invalid. We'll watch over Pip after you have done your… healing thingy," Gimli said, waving his hand vaguely about. "And you can have him back when we're on the move."

"I wouldn't argue with a Dwarf in a protective mood," murmured Legolas, and Aragorn laughed softly.

"I have wisdom enough to know that. Very well, Gimli, I will bring him to you once he has taken water and Athelas, and once we have determined that he has taken no worse hurt. We move on within the hour. Be ready."

"Yes, your divine majesty," Gimli said in a mocking voice, punctuated by a deep formal Dwarvish bow. "And have you eaten yet?"

Aragorn's face was torn between sheepish and irritated.

"We'll find you something. Come meleth" said Legolas, and he put a hand on Gimli's forearm and gently steered him away. His eyes sparkled mischievously as he added, "we can't have him expiring under the weight of his nobility, after all."

"You're both terrible," Aragorn said, but he was smiling again. "Thank you."

"At your service, now and always!" Gimli called back with a wave of his hand. "Âzyungelê, do you suppose that any of these Men of Gondor have any more of that excellent goose?"

"Doesn't hurt to ask. I still have the last of the lembas…"

"Lembas! Pah!"

"I thought you liked it? _And_ it was made by the Lady."

"Oh. Well, the lembas'll do in a pinch."

* * *

_the lungs ache_

Thranduil watched a moment as Celeborn gathered up his wife and carried her to his horse. She looked oddly shrunken to his eyes, as though the fire that had sustained her for so long had dimmed. But he knew that it would re-kindle.

Too, he had what he had long desired. The northern and easternmost reaches of the Forest were now his to claim, by Celeborn's agreement, and he could make secure his kingdom without interference or dispute.

Turning away, he dismissed the Galadhrim from his upper-most thoughts. There was a last duty he had to perform.

He stepped away from his retinue, trusting that the Wizard and Galion would keep them occupied in his absence, and began to tread over the new glade that had taken the place of the great toothed fortress.

"What's he doing?" Lóni murmured. Thráin hushed him, watching the cold, old Elf with narrowed eyes.

"Bet it's nothing good," muttered Frár.

"Shh!" Frís said sternly, and the pair fell still.

Thranduil moved like a breath of air through the leaves, barely brushing them as he passed without a sound. He did not look like a living creature of the world, and so it was that the Dwarves followed at a short distance. The sweet green smell of the newly-grown grass still clung close as he pushed through the saplings and the clinging ivy, until he came to the very place where the tallest tower had loomed. Now, a small cairn of stone was all that remained, and even that was becoming clustered with flowers.

There he knelt, and placed a hand upon the stones.

"What in Durin's name…?" Thráin said in a half-whisper. "What's all this about? Can't we leave this place now?"

Frís took his hand. "Do you need to go, love?"

Thráin shook his head, short and sharp. "I want to know what he thinks he's doing, why he's snuck away from the others."

Thranduil was still as the grave, but eventually he let out a slow, wondering sigh. Then he stood in one liquid motion, and kicked away the uppermost stones. The cairn seemed to be hollow inside, a small dome, each rock holding up the next. They crumbled at his blows, and he kicked again until they were nothing but powder.

Beneath the cairn was the body of an Elf-maid.

It was untouched by decay or age, and she seemed to be only sleeping. Her right hand was curled shut, but her left hand held a sword. Thranduil let out another slow sigh, and Lóni wondered at the deep emotion in it. An Elf that had always seemed to be made entirely of ice should not sound so terribly wounded.

"So this is where you met your end, my captain," he said at last, and he knelt down by the body, brushing the specks of black rock-powder from her face and hair. She was beautiful, as all Elves were, but there was wilfulness and humour in that face. Her hair was as red as a Firebeard's. "I suspected it. I knew the moment you left the world. I knew you did not sail."

He bent his head. "Still fighting the battles I would not, I see."

Then Frís made a sound of shock, and she turned to Thráin. "Do you remember…"

Thráin set his jaw. "Aye. I remember. I saw."

Frís stared at the scene and whispered, "how did Kíli _know?"_

"It seems our grandson is keeping the old family tradition of secrecy in the face of heartache," Thráin sighed.

"I can guess at your purpose here," Thranduil said, and he smoothed back the vibrant hair with tender fingers. "Single-handedly you sought to root out the evil that plagued us. Nothing ever stopped you from acting when you knew your course and your cause were right. I would that you had told me, child."

"She tried to… take Dol Guldur? On her own?" said Lóni in amazed horror. "But that's…"

"Brave," said Thráin.

"And foolhardy," Frár added. Thráin snorted.

"Sorry, didn't you try to retake Khazad-dûm?"

"Didn't _you_ try first? _"_ Lóni shot back. Frís shot a glare up at them both, and they subsided reluctantly.

Gently, Thranduil pried open the fingers of her right hand, which fell lax to the ground like the spread petals of a flower. There was an old smooth runestone sitting there: it had been held for so long, the words had left their impression in the flesh of her palm.

"Oh Tauriel, goheno nín," Thranduil breathed, and he sounded old, and tired, and broken in more ways than Lóni could even imagine. "It was real. It was."

Frís pressed her hands over her mouth. "How can we ever tell him _this?"_

Thráin's chest was heaving, but he managed to croak out, "I will tell him."

Frís gave him a questioning look.

"If nothing else, Custard will be there," he said. Frís' expression remained dubious, but she eventually nodded. Then she embraced him and pressed her face into his chest, and Thráin buried his own in her fair hair.

Thranduil's face was smooth and expressionless, but his eyes were full of remorse and pain as he folded the slim fingers around the stone once more. Then he stood and looked down at the peaceful figure that slumbered in the flowers. "Sleep well, and be reborn in a land free of all sorrow," he said at last. "Fighting evil to your last breath, even as your life left you. Would that we all had your courage."

As he turned away, Lóni caught a glimpse of a dreadful scar, burned and charred and open, upon his face.

* * *

_but for a moment, just a moment_

As it turned out, Barís Crystaltongue was far, far more than a pretty voice.

Her plan seemed to involve shooting a rope-arrow into the burning foodstore. Then the assembled Dwarves, Elves and Men could use the rope as a pulley to sling buckets and water-skins into the closed-off room. Barís gesticulated wildly as she explained her plan to Bani and Bomfrís, her hair coming loose from its braid and sticking to the sweat on her brow.

"It's too dangerous to walk into it, it's too closed-off, there's too much smoke," she finished in a rushed voice. "So we have to get sand and water in there without going in ourselves."

Bani looked very sceptical, but Bomfrís was nodding.

  
  
Bani, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/124789702630/a-collection-of-scribbles-of-some-awesome-ladies)  


"What about leathers?" Bani wanted to know, chewing on the earpiece of her glasses as she examined the sketch Barís had drawn on the wall in charcoal. "Couldn't we dress in layers of mail and leather?" But both sisters were already shaking their heads.

"We've seen this before, with miners," Bomfrís said briskly. "Even with a soaked cloth over your mouth, you suffocate before getting burned. In a closed room like the food-store, the smoke has nowhere to travel. Even lying flat on the floor won't save you."

"We have to try _something,_ " Barís said, wringing her hands. "And this is the only thing I can think of."

Bombur felt Bifur's hand come to rest gently on his back. "Proud of them?" he said softly.

"More than I can ever say," Bombur said, his voice thick.

"I know," Barís said, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second before plowing on with her sentence, "I know that my last idea didn't work so well, and you've no reason to trust this one, but..."

Bani snorted loudly, still staring at the sketch and picking up the charcoal. She tweaked a detail here and there as she spoke. "Oh, Songbird. Ideas _usually_ don't work. Usually, they're a bloody mess. Doesn't mean you stop trying. Where would I be if I gave up after every mistake I've made? Not working in Thira's forge, that's for damn sure. Nah, we try everything, and we clean up the mess if it explodes."

Bomfrís prodded Barís in the arm and mouthed 'ASK HER NOW!' Barís hissed at her to stop before she cleared her throat and said, "right, so, do you think it'll work?"

Bani stepped back and squinted at the changes she'd made. Then she nodded. "Only one way to find out. Come on, you two. Let's go give these panicking nobles something to do. We're going to need your Elf friend, your Highness."

"He's _not_ my friend, why does everyone _say_ that - and stop calling me that!"

* * *

"I am tired of being confined in this gentle prison," said a voice, as Haban shook off the starlight and blinked in the light of the living.

"Well, don't feel alone," answered another, and Haban turned to see Merry sitting upon a bench in a small courtyard. He had a bandage around his sword-arm, and the circles beneath his eyes were still dark, but he looked otherwise entirely recovered. There was a pitcher of water and a small bowl of fruit by his side, although it was much depleted."Who's looking after Pippin now? And I'll bet he's already out of pipeweed."

"I wish there were messengers," said the other, and at Haban's side Gróin made a noise of surprise. She squinted as her eyes adjusted, and made out the tall fair form of Éowyn. The shieldmaiden was staring out over the battered plain of the Pelennor, as though she could pierce the distance between herself and the battle with her eyes alone. "I am as ready as any to fight. They would have me wear nightclothes, and lie abed two more days! I am as healed as I need to be, and my arm will not hinder me. I can fight as well with the other. I can feel myself grow weak and withered, here in this cage."

"As healed as she needs to be for what?" wondered Gróin.

Haban had a suspicion. "Oh, child," she sighed. "There are finer and greater things in life than to die in battle. Take it from one who knows."

"At least Faramir made them change your room," Merry said brightly, pouring himself a cup of water. "Now it looks to the East, doesn't it? Though the view isn't very inspiring, if you ask me. North, now - North has a lot to recommend it."

Éowyn smiled to herself. "And do they breed small, fierce warriors in the lands of the North, Master Merry?"

Merry snorted around a surreptitious mouthful of fruit. Haban hadn't even seen him take a handful. "Hardly. We're a soft little land, with soft little people. Or so it seems to me, now that I've seen something of the wide world. But we've a store of wisdom in our ways, for all that. We love peace more than battle. Before I left the Shire I was better versed with a garden fork than a sword."

"It seems a dull, staid way to live," said Éowyn. "Timid and meek and mild."

"Oh, it can be, it can be," Merry said, though his tone was one of polite disagreement. "It's certainly full of gossip, and everyone lives in each other's pockets half the time. It's not very grand or heroic, I suppose. But it is sturdy, and safe, and made to last. If good food and warm homes, family and comfort is dull, then I shall be dull and enjoy it. I am not made to live on the tallest peaks, but in cosy Hobbit-holes. Preferably ones with well-stocked larders."

"But now you have seen those tall peaks, have you not?"

"And mighty uncomfortable they are, too." Merry made a face. "I shan't forget Caradhras in a hurry."

Éowyn turned away from her contemplation of the Eastern sky, and smiled down at him. "I am once again amazed at your bravery, Esquire of Rohan, hearing such things of your homeland. You have been remarkably strong in the face of many dangers. I wish I had been at your side. I could have won honour such as you have - or better, such as Théoden-King."

Merry raised an eyebrow over his glass of water. "I managed to stay alive, with a lot of luck and a lot of help and a few narrow scrapes. And i can hardly understand why you should envy me that. Why, you have honour in battle that songs shall sing for ever and ever! I should prefer to have Pippin by me, and ale instead of water in my glass. But now it strikes me, Lady, and I wonder: whoever told you that to be peaceful was to be _weak?_ "

Éowyn's brow furrowed, and she stiffened.

"I like Hobbits more and more," Haban said with approval, and she folded her arms. "An excellent people."

"The White Lady of Rohan indeed," Gróin said, watching Éowyn with wary eyes. "Silver-steel she is, but worn so thin and so brittle you could snap her."

Merry looked down into his cup, wincing. "I do not mean to be so blunt. That's our way. I know my little land and our little ways must seem very small and silly. But good gracious me, as Old Bilbo would say! I know Hobbits more ferocious than any number of Orcs. Frodo is the bravest Hobbit I have ever known, and he's as gentle as milk! We love our land, we love our friends and our home and our peaceful little lives. We'd fight for them, if we had to."

Éowyn stared at him.

Gróin slipped his hand into Haban's, and squeezed it. "Sounds nearly Dwarvish, doesn't he?"

"How is your arm, really?" Merry said, and he leaned forward. "Mine's still cold to the touch, and it feels wrong when I use it - like it's not quite attached to me, if you take my meaning. Sometimes my fingers go numb, even in the warmest room. That nasty stain's gone, at least. You struck the deeper blow, yours must give you even more trouble."

She started, as though out of some near-daydream, and then said, "...yes, it is still cold. And there is a cobweb of black lines over it."

"Then you should stand in the sunlight," came a new voice, and Faramir came into the garden. He seemed much stronger, his face flushed with the walk from his room.

"But then I cannot see over the walls of the city towards the river," Éowyn answered, and she bent her head. Her fingers plucked at her sleeves. "I cannot remember the road they took."

"I will show you," Faramir said. "How do you fare, Éowyn?"

She did not answer.

Merry sighed. "Well, I'm going in. That wind means business! And I can't be by Pippin's side for wishing it, so I might as well sleep some more."

"Sleep well, Merry," Éowyn said, and she did not look up. "And I shall think on what you said."

"Oh, pay it hardly any mind, I'm cross and peevish thanks to all this inactivity myself." Merry slipped down from the bench, and began to pad away. As he passed Faramir, he patted his arm. "Go slow," he whispered.

Faramir gave him a grateful nod.

The garden seemed somehow larger without the lively bright personality of Merry to fill it: hollow, and cold. Faramir moved to Éowyn's side, and together they looked over the walls of the city into the darkness beyond.

"That boy's in love," said Haban suddenly. Gróin gave her an inquiring look. She waved a hand at the pair. "Look at him!"

"How can you tell?"

She lifted her eyes to the sky, as though searching it for patience. "I've been standing vigil over him for Mahal knows how long. I feel like I know him as well as our own lads. And he's been mooning over that brave proud lass ever since he first laid eyes on her."

"If you say so," Gróin said, shrugging. She lifted her chin, about to contest her point, but he raised his hand. "Love, you're better than most at knowing what's not said. I'd be a fool not to trust your gut." He then gave her a warm, smug little grin. "After all, you said yes to me."

She smiled at him, small and tender, and smoothed down his beard. "Tcch. Must have been out of my mind," she said, and kissed him. "Now hush."

"Aye, my darling."

"That's not hush!"

"I have something here for you," Faramir said, and he shook out the bundle he was carrying. A length of darkest blue ran out and swayed in the chill wind, and Éowyn's eyes widened. "It is a cloak. It grows cold here, and the Black Breath lingers still. If I feel it, how much more do you?"

"I am no frail and dainty thing, to need a wrapper," she said, but Faramir only laughed his gentle laugh.

"And it is no shame to be mortal and feel the elements. If it does not please your eye, then I shall not insist. But I think it would become you."

Éowyn's eyes fell to the cloak again, and this time they took in the beautiful knotwork of stars that bordered the hem and throat. "It is very beautiful," she said, and her eyes lifted up to Faramir's once more. "It looks old, and well cared-for."

"And warm, I hope." Faramir ran a thumb across an embroidered star, and his gaze became distant and far away. "I remember it as warm."

Éowyn hesitated a second longer, and then Haban snapped, "oh, blast your pride, girl! Wear the cloak!"

It was nigh-impossible that this shieldmaiden of the horse-lords had heard the voice of a long-dead Dwarven warriorress. Nevertheless, Éowyn stepped forward and held her good arm out. "Please, then."

Faramir's answering smile was radiant, if brief, and he carefully swung it around Éowyn's shoulders and clasped the buckle upon Éowyn's throat. "I was right," he said, softly.

  
  
Faramir and Eowyn and the cloak of stars, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/142929384130/faramirs-answering-smile-was-radiant-if-brief)  


Éowyn's cheeks were stained ever so slightly as they turned to stand side by side, watching, always watching the East.

"Seven days," she whispered.

Faramir did not look at her. "Seven days?"

"Since he rode away," she said, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Ah." Faramir's shoulders did not slump, but Haban sensed that it was a near thing. Yet he kept whatever keen disappointment he felt to himself, and did not force it upon the other. "So it is. Seven days, and no news. It pains me more than my burns."

"And do your wounds still trouble you?" Éowyn asked, and Faramir sighed out between his teeth.

"Not.. the bodily hurts, no. They heal. The people of this house know their work, and they do it well."

Éowyn's head turned, ever so slightly, towards him. "Then what ails you, my lord?"

Faramir was quiet, and then he said, "if any would understand, then it would be you. For my brother is dead, and my father, and the world stands poised on the precipice, ready to fall or be swallowed by darkness... Yet my heart hopes on, vain thing that it is. Though we have no word, no hope and no tomorrow, still I look to the East."

Éowyn's jaw rippled as she clenched it, and she gripped the edges of the starry cloak and shivered.

"Seven days," Faramir repeated, almost to himself. "And they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found."

"Lose what you have found, lord?" Éowyn said, and looked up at him. Her eyes were kind, but firm. "I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all!" And she turned back to the parapet and stared out with renewed determination.

Haban gave a resigned nod. "Ah well."

"We wait, and we keep looking East for the stroke of doom," Faramir murmured, and then his breath caught. For the wind that whipped around the peak of Mindolluin suddenly died, and the sun darkened all at once. The birdsong faltered, and stopped.

No voice spoke. Not even the rustle of leaves nor the beating of their hearts made a sound. Time halted.

The world held its breath.

Without looking, without even conscious direction, Faramir and Éowyn's hands floated through the timeless moment, and met, and clasped.

Haban reached out and took Gróin's hand as well, and held tightly. He squeezed back, and she thanked Mahal for her sweet argumentative fool, with his gruff ways and his enormous heart. Then she wondered how Narvi was. Where she was. If she was all right.

Even as they watched, it seemed that a vast nebulous darkness rose over the distant peaks of the Mountains of Mordor, towering up like a monstrous wave that would swallow the entire world. In its depths, lightning played and spat. The earth began to quake - and the walls shook in sympathy. The wind rushed back in a torrent, blowing Faramir's and Éowyn's hair together, twisting and mingled, as they stood before the brink.

"It reminds me of Númenor," whispered Faramir.

"Of Númenor?" said Éowyn.

Faramir's hand tightened on hers. "Of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

"Then you think that the Darkness is coming?" said Éowyn. "Darkness Unescapable?" And she drew close to him, as though the bitter wind had finally pierced her.

"No," said Faramir, and he turned his head down to look at her. "I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!" And he stooped and kissed her brow.

The sunlight began to wax, feebly at first. Then it broke into great rays of brilliance that shattered the terrible darkness into pieces and sent it dissipating into a memory of itself, before the wind drove the remnants away.

"What-" Éowyn gasped, and she broke away and leaned upon the wall to stare at the golden light that now poured over the land. What had seemed dull and drab and scarred forever beyond hope, now broke forth in new colour: green and gold and red, the river Anduin shining like silver.

And rising out of the dawn in the East came an Eagle, bearing tidings beyond all hope.

_Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,_  
_for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,_  
_and the Dark Tower is thrown down._  
_Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,_  
_for your watch hath not been in vain,_  
_and the Black Gate is broken,_  
_and your King hath passed through,_  
_and he is victorious._  
_Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,_  
_for your King shall come again,_  
_and he shall dwell among you_  
_all the days of your life._  
_And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,_  
_and he shall plant it in the high places,_  
_and the City shall be blessed._  
_Sing all ye people!_

* * *

One by one, they staggered into Thrór's workshop.

One by one, they trickled in from where they had been when the cataclysm struck. Everyone's face was stunned and slack, their voice mute. When they met each other's eyes, the same wonderment shone back at them.

"It's done," said Thorin, dumbfounded and reeling. Dáin steadied him carefully. His head ached. His limbs trembled as though the Eye still - no. No. "I cannot believe it. It is done."

"Aye," said Thrór, proud and soft. "And you led us through it. Through terror and fear and endless chases, ancient lies and new ones, through your own despondency and doubt, you have brought us together and led us through, you have been a guide to the living, and you never once faltered."

And the King Under the Mountain bowed his head to his grandson, his beard brushing low and his hand pressed to his heart in deepest respect.

"Not even when it hurt," Fíli said quietly, and his eyes shone. Then he too, bowed his golden head. One by one, the others followed suit: wheat bending before a wind.

Thorin could not think of what to say, and he stood feeling awkward for a moment. His mind was full of dumbfounded fog. "This was all of us, working together," he began, and then paused. He could not think of words enough to show his gratitude, his love and his respect.

Then it dawned that no words would ever be sufficient, not for all they had so freely given and taught him. So he bent his head and bowed back, the truest bow he had ever given in life or death. "I thank you all," he managed, his voice thick.

"Well, there's a nice sight," said Bilbo, right at his side where he ought to be. The Hobbit gave Thorin a small, secret smile. "You earned that, my dear."

Thorin's mouth was numb. "It's done," he repeated, and blinked rapidly.

" _I'm_ done," said Nori. "I vote we all go sleep for a few centuries."

"Seconded," grunted Narvi. A snore rose from Óin's direction.

Kíli simply turned on the spot and began to trudge wearily from the forge. "Wake me when the Battle of Battles begins," he yawned.

"Cover your mouth!" Hrera's voice rose over the crowd.

Thorin shuffled down the corridors, and only vaguely recognised the feeling of his brother's small hand on his shoulder. "Are you even awake right now?" Frerin murmured.

"Not really," Thorin said, and he blinked some more.

"Heavens, get him into a bed before he tips over face-first onto the floor," Bilbo fretted.

"Shh, âzyungelê, don't fret so. I wouldn't do such a thing," Thorin lifted his head and smiled muzzily at Bilbo. "You look beautiful, by the way. If I forgot to mention it before."

Bilbo immediately began to splutter, half-begun sentences that never quite joined up. Then he clamped his mouth closed and a lovely flush rose on his neck. Thorin wondered if it went all the way down his chest…

"All right, you need to stop saying these things aloud where I can hear them," Frerin said, amused. "Here's your bed. Pleasant dreams, nadad."

"G'night, nadadith," Thorin mumbled, and he pitched forward onto his pillow and was asleep in the next breath.

* * *

_and the world exhales_

Hrera was rather bored. She had taken over the duty from Lóni and Frár, but it was frankly astonishingly dull now that all the… _unnaturalness_ was over. She yawned and idly straightened her beard, plucking the droplet-beads into place by feel and long habit. Yes, tremendously, intolerably dull. Nothing to look at but _plants_.

She should be back with her family. Most of them were all gathered again, all taking their well-deserved rest at last. Frerin was bundled up with a cup of tea, and Thorin _finally_ slept. Dear selfless silly child, putting himself in the path of the _Eye!_ Risking goodness only knows what, the Shadow itself, Mahal save her. She had a good mind to -

A slight, small figure came striding out of all the plants. His sword was stained black with blood.

"Ah, the eldest son," Hrera realised. "Well, he's closer to a proper and decent height, at least."

"Adar. What Orcs remain have fled for the Mountains. Do we pursue?" Laindawar stood as tall as his frame permitted, eager as a hunting hound upon a leash. His eyes glittered.

Thranduil's face was turned away, and he was standing by his great Elk. His hand idly brushed along the glossy coat. He did not answer at once, and Laindawar shifted impatiently, his armour clanking. "No, leave the chase. What Orcs remain will not venture back. How did our people fare?"

"Better than theirs." Laindawar looked disappointed, but hid it magnificently, Hrera thought. She had always admired those who could conceal such things.

(She steadfastly refused to remember her own later years, her chin held high even as her heart howled in her chest, her ears catching every whisper, her royal gowns donned with as much precision and care as any suit of armour.)

"None killed, though Taembeng was wounded."

Thranduil closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the smooth flank of the Elk. "Galion?"

"His tongue remains unharmed," said Laindawar, a small sour twist to his lips. "He complained the entire time."

"Hah." Thranduil's shoulders straightened ever so slightly.

Hrera frowned and looked closer at the Elvenking. Far from seeming icy and remote and untouchable, he was somehow - softer. Somehow. But more brittle? She couldn't tell. Yet the news of his wine-soaked old butler's survival made him brighten…? Odd.

"How many Orcs escaped?" Thranduil said, and he turned around to face his son at last.

"A double handful, none to speak of." Laindawar drew himself up. "I would go and complete the task, if you would but give the word…"

"Nay, we return North." Thranduil looked up at the surrounding trees, their boughs swaying peacefully in the breeze. "We have cleaned our woods at last. We have no more business here."

Laindawar huffed, but did not argue.

"North!" Radagast's voice rang out, and the Wizard stumped out of the forest. Somehow his hat was on backwards. "If you're off North, then I'm going with you. Someone needs to sort out that mess, and Gandalf isn't here. Off smoking with Hobbits in the Shire again, I suppose! So old brown muggins here has to do it, oh yes..."

"Gandalf has _died_ for this war. He is at the crux of things even now," Hrera snapped. "And how dare you put me in the position of defending him! Intolerable."

"Oh, who asked _you_?" Radagast sniffed. He put his hands on his hips and gave the two Elves a quelling look (spoiled by the hat, sadly). "Right, so, you've food?"

Thranduil's eyes grew wary, though his face remained calm. "Enough."

"Good. I hope it's sufficient for Dale and Erebor. They're going to need something to eat after all those bloody Orcs have been at their crops. Calling them locusts would be an insult to locusts everywhere."

"Mahal be blessed," Hrera gasped, completely blindsided and totally stunned. "Oh - oh please!"

"You cannot be serious," said Laindawar.

"I'm perfectly serious," said Radagast. "I've known some splendid locusts."

"Why should we send food to the Dwarves?" Thranduil said, his voice slow and measured.

Hrera spun about to glare at him, her tongue ready to lash him into ribbons - but the Wizard was faster. Radagast stepped so swiftly that she could not follow it. She blinked, and he was nose-to-nose with the Elvenking.

"Because they are starving, Thranduil," he said softly. "The birds sing it, the rivers whisper of it. The Dwarves are starving, and still they fight. Still they hold back the hordes of Gundabad that would have turned our mighty, ancient forest into kindling and ash and smoke. Their valour and their sacrifice should be honoured."

"I have not ever doubted their courage." Thranduil said.

"Adar…" said Laindawar uncomfortably.

Thranduil did not look away from Radagast. "Deri, Ionneg. "

"Did you feel the Darkness flee the world?" Radagast said softly. His ancient eyes were keen. "The earth sings songs of freedom beneath our feet."

Thranduil shuddered. "I felt it. The Enemy is gone."

"A new dawn, a new Age," Radagast said, and he lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

Thranduil did not speak, but his eyes flickered back towards the fall of stone beyond the glade.

"Once you looked upon starving Dwarves and turned away," Radagast said, his voice whispering like the wind in the leaves. "How shall you start this new Age of the Sun, O mighty Elvenking?"

"Adar, I feel we must," said Laindawar, with obvious reluctance. "The Wizard is right." His mouth pursed, as though to say such words had caused an unpleasant taste. "If not for the Mountain of the Dwarves, the Forest would have fallen… despite our pains and our long war. We have stored barrels enough to..."

"Barrels, do not mention barrels!" Thranduil hissed, and he closed his eyes and turned away. His fingers rose to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

"Your strength has carried you far, and protected your people well," Radagast said, and he tipped his head. "Can you not bend, just this once, and show pity to those who need it?"

Thranduil's eyes snapped open, and his head whipped back to stare at the Wizard. "I have heard words like these before," he said, and his fingers groped for the neck of the Elk. Finding it, he held on tightly. "And he was right. He was right. Strong enough to shatter. Ahh, Elbereth, anno dulu enni. They do not know when to flee and not to fight."

Radagast's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Er. Pardon?"

Thranduil took one or two deep breaths, and then he nodded. "We will send food. As much as needed. The Dalefolk also, for they are neighbours and friends beyond trading and coin. It will need all our people. We ride North, and we do not stop for wind or weather. As swift as the Eagle we must be!"

Hrera's eyelids pressed shut, and two cold tears dripped into her beard, tickling the hair. "Mahal be praised, they're saved. They're saved, oh great Telphor, I cannot believe…!" she wept, and her fabled poise was nowhere to be seen.

Well, damn her pride, anyway. Damn all pride! They were saved!

"Lasto beth nin!" Thranduil called, and answering horn-calls greeted the cry. "North! We ride! Noro lim! Toro, noro lim!"

Laindawar answered the cry with a fierce shout of "Gwaem!" And he leapt in the air and darted from the clearing, disappearing like smoke.

Thranduil swung himself onto his great Elk and smoothed down its neck with his palm. "She would have been pleased," he said, cryptically. And then the huge beast tossed its wide-antlered head, and it was cantering away in a thunder of hooves. "Keep up, Wizard!"

"So dramatic!" Radagast grumbled, and then he whistled for his sled. Spotting Hrera and her tearful face, he said in a peevish voice, "well, go off and give everyone the good news!"

"Thank you," she said, from the depths of her heart. The querulous old fellow's face reddened, and he adjusted his hat.

"Er. Yes. Thank you for the thank you. No, no no, that's not right... What does one say when one is thanked? I can't quite remember?" He scratched his head. Dirt fell away like fine grubby rain.

"One says, 'you are welcome'," Hrera told him, smiling through her misty eyes.

"Oh, that was it! Well, you are welcome, dear lady. Off you pop, then!"

A small indignant part of Hrera bristled at being told 'off you pop' but she squashed it firmly. However, every bone in her body cried out for one last thing - and so she couldn't stop herself from saying, "And your hat is on backwards."

"What? My hat, backwards? _All that time?"_

She put on her most politely regretful expression, and folded her hands. "I'm afraid so."

Radagast swore and began to fumble at his head, even as he kept on muttering to himself. "My hat backwards, blast. All the while I was going cross-eyed at that stubborn old Elf. I bet this would never happen to Gandalf…"

Hrera shut her eyes, and smiled at the sounds of peevish grumbling that followed her into the cool darkness of the Halls.

* * *

_and the world exhales_

The Eagles laid Sam and Frodo upon the coverlets as tenderly as a mother might lay her sleeping child. The cries of horror that arose from Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas and Pippin made Fíli's eyes slide shut. He had known – oh, how he had known – how bad it was, how starved and dry and drained they had become.

Somehow it was worse, under the green leaves and in the wholesome light of the wilds of Ilthilien.

Gandalf slid down from the back of the greatest of the Eagles, and he bowed to him deeply. "My thanks, Gwaihir, my old friend," he said, and the Eagle cocked its mighty head at him, eyes unblinking. Then it lowered its own head, feathered crown bristling, before the huge pinions spread. With a gust of wind that sent everyone's hair flying, the Eagles of Manwë took once again to the air.

"They will go north," Gandalf said, watching them go for a moment. Then he knelt down by the two small bodies and smoothed back their hair. "Their lives are nearly spent," he murmured, "the flame of their spirits is the only thing that has kept them on through this terrible, terrible journey."

"I have so little left," Aragorn said, kneeling down beside Gandalf. "So little, and now it is needed more than ever…"

"I know the look and scent of it," said Legolas at once, "I shall find it."

"I'll go make sure he doesn't get lost," Gimli added. Legolas rolled his eyes, but made no protest.

"Oh, _make sure he doesn't get lost,_ oh, very subtle, cousin," Kíli snorted. Fíli didn't dare look away from the small, thin figures lying huddled on Aragorn's travel-roll.

Pippin was crying, tears rolling silently down his face and dripping from his chin. His mouth formed the shape of their names over and over, and he was clutching at his own fingers as though he were able to give one to Frodo.

"Shh, little warrior," said Imrahil gently. "Mithrandir and Elessar will see them through."

"He needs the arts of Elrond," Aragorn muttered, his hands busy as he wrapped a bandage tightly around Frodo's maimed hand, wiped off the ugly and infected scrapes all over Sam's feet, found the long, raw cuts on their backs from an Orc-whip. Pippin bit off a choked sob.

"Oh please," he whispered.

"I need them to take water, if they can," Aragorn said to himself, and he leaned forward over their sleeping faces. "Frodo, Sam," he called, and he laid his head upon Frodo's breast for a moment, listening. "His heart beats, but sluggishly. Frodo, your enemy is gone and your torment over! Sam Gamgee, awake! For the long night is done and your task fulfilled!"

"That's not going to work," Pippin sniffed. "You wouldn't rouse the healthiest hobbit from their feather pillow with that."

"Then, by all means, Peregrin Took," Gandalf snapped, barely holding back a storm of impatience and worry, "do show us how it is done!"

Pippin gave the Wizard a cross glare that didn't at all conceal how afraid he was. Then he drew himself up taller with a little effort, and said loudly and brightly, "Ho there, Sam! Where's Mister Frodo?"

"Mis' Frodo," Sam mumbled. "G't t' find Musser Frono…"

Aragorn and Gandalf stared down at the Hobbit in surprise, before turning back to Pippin. "I stand corrected, Master Took," Gandalf said eventually.

Pippin's eyes still glittered with tears, but he raised his chin, folded his arms, and raised his eyebrows nevertheless. "Big Folk," he muttered to himself.

"Where is he?" Sam said, more distinctly, and he blinked awake all at once. Snapping upright, he scrambled back. His little chest heaved up and down as he looked wildly about at everyone without recognising them. "Mister Frodo!" he shouted, thin and frightened, and then seemed to freeze in place.

"Gandalf?" he quavered. "I didn't leave him. _Don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee._ I didn't. I didn't. I…"

"Sssh," Gandalf said, and he gathered the swaying, exhausted Hobbit up in his arms. "You have done more than any could have dreamed, and I am prouder of you than I have words to express. Come, you need to heal, you need water and food."

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister Gandalf sir, but Mister Frodo needs it more'n me," Sam said, blinking slowly. "I'll get by with a few sips o' water."

"Oh, you dear idiot, there's plenty for you both," Pippin burst out. "Aragorn, do something, he's not making a lick of sense!"

"This will take all my art," Aragorn said, squaring his shoulders, and standing. His eyes rested on Frodo, grave and serious. "I fear they both stand at the brink of death. Imrahil, would you prepare a pavilion for them, somewhere apart from the main encampment? And send the sons of Elrond to me. They may have some knowledge of their father's methods."

Imrahil bowed, and immediately strode from the small tent.

"I'll be fine," Sam said, but his voice was slurring as Gandalf raised a pitcher of water to his lips. "I'll get by."

"I know you will," Gandalf said softly. "Drink, now."

Pippin's face contorted, as though he was barely holding back another sob.

"I have found it!" came a light voice, and Legolas entered on swift feet, his breath coming fast. "We have plenty! The beech by the falls told me where to seek it."

"That's his tale, anyway," Gimli said from behind the Elf, his arms full of green trailing leaves. "Note who gets to carry it."

Aragorn smiled. "Thank you, my friends." And he took the bundle of Athelas from Gimli. He crushed the leaves in his hands, before casting them in a bowl of water and stirring it. It seemed to Fíli that he was forcing himself to act slowly and not to rush in his panic.

"Sam, here, drink this," he said, and handed over the bowl. "Slowly now, lest you be sick."

"Mister Frodo first," Sam said, sleepily, somewhere in Gandalf's arms.

"I have seen to Frodo," Aragorn lied. "Come and drink."

Sam poked his head out of Gandalf's voluminous white robes as the bowl was held to his mouth. He gulped greedily, but Gandalf only allowed him smallish sips. All were quiet as he drank.

Eventually Sam's head began to nod, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"He dozes, but he needs a healing sleep," Aragorn said, his voice oddly loud after the hush. "Now for Frodo. Pippin, have you any ideas?"

Fíli had an awful suspicion as to what would wake Frodo – or at least rouse him enough to take water.

Pippin frowned. "I don't know. But maybe…"

Gimli's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head sharply. "Too cruel," he said. "We cannot use the memory of the Ring, not even for his good. It would be too cruel."

"Oh, thank Mahal someone else said it, and not me," Kíli said fervently.

"I fear that we must," said Gandalf, though his voice was heavy and reluctant.

"Don't you _dare,_ " snarled Fíli, and his hands were balled at his sides. "You do not yet know, Gandalf, what that evil thing _did to him._ I did. I was there. I took every step by his side."

Gandalf glanced over at the pair of ghostly brothers, and his brows beetled in thought. "I wish there were some other way," he said.

"Sam can rouse him," said Fíli. "Sam can always rouse him."

"Get Sam to do it, then," said Gimli, glaring at Gandalf. Legolas laid a hand on Gimli's shoulder, gently, as though tethering the Dwarf in place.

"Good idea," Pippin said, and he squinted up at Aragorn. "Should I call him again?"

"No, I shall do it," said Aragorn, and he bent over the drowsing Hobbit in Gandalf's arms. "Sam," he said, quietly and firmly. Fíli felt himself stand straighter: there was an odd compulsion in Aragorn's voice.

"Mmm, Strider? Have we reached the falls, then?" Sam mumbled.

A faint puzzled look crossed Legolas' face. "He… does not know where he is?"

"Got to get the sausages on before those two little idiots scoff the lot," Sam said, his words blurring together. "Boating's not for Hobbiton folk. What my Gaffer'd say, I can't think…"

"He believes us to be back on Anduin," whispered Aragorn, and Fíli's heart sank just that little bit lower. "So close to the door."

Then he raised his voice, and said, "we're off in an hour, Sam. Best call Frodo and make him ready."

"All righ'," said Sam, and he smiled, though his eyes were still closed. "Mister Frodo, sir? Got to get going again. We're carrying boats again today, no doubt. But there's a bite to be had first, I hope."

Frodo stirred, and moaned.

"Good," said Gandalf, and he carefully lowered Sam back down beside Frodo on the pallet. "Yes, very good. Now, Aragorn. Let him drink."

Aragorn took up the bowl of steeped Athelas, and snuck an arm under Frodo's thin little shoulders. "Here, before we go. Just as Sam said," he murmured, and brought it to Frodo's lips.

"Drink, please, _please_ drink it," Kíli said, clutching at his hair in worry. Fíli carefully untangled his brother's fingers and held them tight. He didn't have enough hair to go about tearing it out, after all.

Frodo's head lolled, but he opened his mouth at Aragorn's gentle urging, and took a couple of painful-looking swallows. Then he let out a little sigh and lay still, as though he were dead.

Even in a swoon, Sam curled in towards him.

Finally, Aragorn stood and looked down at the pair for a long moment. Then he said, "that is all I can do for the present. Elladan and Elrohir may know more. The herb is good and fresh-picked and will bring them a healing sleep, if it can. But that they have lived thus is a horror and a pain to me. And only their own resilience can see them through."

"Hobbits are made of sterner stuff than anyone realises," Gandalf said, and he bent and laid a hand upon Frodo's brow. His eyes slid shut, and he breathed deeply for a pause. A silent detonation filled the air, a soundless tremor. Then his eyes opened again, and he nodded. "They will live."

"Of course they will!" said Pippin fiercely. "Why, just look at Merry!"

"Do you think they'll remember this?" said Legolas. Gimli put his own broad hand over Legolas' where it rested on his shoulder.

"They are as subtle as an axe to the face," Kíli snorted.

"I do not think they will," Aragorn said. "They are half-aware of the world, more than half-starved, and their minds and bodies have been pushed to their absolute limit. But as Pippin says, Hobbits are a doughty race, and quick to recover."

"Can't we clean them up a little?" said Pippin, who had gone back to wringing his hands and looking distressed. "If I were them, the itching would have driven me out of my mind. And that looks like half the dust of Mordor caked between their toes. Frodo always had such well-combed feet…"

"Shh, yes, yes we will," said Gimli, and he crossed the small tent to give the little fellow a quick, warm hug. "There, now. Chin up, lad, and dry your eyes, eh? We'll have them looking like a mine o' diamonds again in no time. You'll see."

Every so often, Fíli forgot just how much _older_ Gimli was. It was too easy to see him as their peer and playmate, as their loud feisty little cousin tagging at their heels. "And then he says something like that," he muttered, and heard Kíli's small grunt of agreement.

"We will stay here until they are recovered enough to travel," said Aragorn, and he slumped down to the floor. A great weariness was in his eyes, and he wiped his hands down over his face, his short beard rasping.

"You need rest also," Legolas told him. Aragorn smiled.

"You pair will mother me endlessly."

"Damn right," Gimli growled, and gave Pippin a little shake. "You should both sleep. Legolas and I will find food. We're not tired."

"All know of the tirelessness of the Elves," said Gandalf mildly. "No doubt Legolas can now attest to the endurance of Dwarves,"

Kíli broke into a wheezing, spluttering laugh as Legolas' ears turned scarlet. Gimli coughed and cleared his throat several times, before abruptly turning on his heel and striding from the tent.

"You should not tease them so," Aragorn said, but there was now a smile on his tired face. Gandalf winked at him.

Legolas' ears were still a violent red as he stood alone and awkward. He licked his lips once, twice. Then he said, "actually, yes I can. And it is formidable."

Then he fled the tent as fast as his feet would carry him.

"I wish I could un-hear a thing," Fíli groaned, as Kíli went into hysterics at his side.

* * *

_the breath catches_

"Jumped me from behind," groaned Beri, holding a wet rag to her head. "I wasn't expecting it. Genild was watching one of the other doors."

"And if you think I'm letting you out o' my sight again, you're dreaming," Genild said, clipped and short. She was gripping her wife's hand tightly, and her face was completely implacable.

"Don't take this upon yourself," the Stonehelm said, and he stood. "This is treachery and self-interest. You did exactly as you ought."

Beri patted his hand vaguely. "What a nice young fellow you are," she said.

"You're sure you're all right, Mum?" Jeri said, hovering.

"Go on, darling, I'm fine," Beri said, and she indicated the wet rag on her head with a tilt of her eyes. "Don't you go getting a crack on the head with a beam, though."

"You're lucky she did not stab you, from what my second tells me," Laerophen said. Jeri's face drained of all blood.

"Oh, why on earth did you say that?" Beri grumbled. "Genild, dearest one, I will be _fine…"_

" _YOU COULD HAVE BEEN STABBED?!"_

The King gave her an awkward sort of smile, before he left them and ran back through the haze-filled corridors to the storerooms. Upon entering the long hall, absolute cacophony greeted him.

There were people everywhere, and many ropes were strung from wall to wall, doubled over to make pulleys. Smoke poured from the doorways of the stores, and many had tied cloths over their noses and mouths. Leather bags, barrels, waterskins: anything that could hold water was passed hand to hand, and hooked onto the ropes. Then they were hauled over the store-rooms.

The ceilings of the octagonal, dome-like storerooms had long since burned through. They had been fired clay and not steel or stone - the better to allow moisture to evaporate and so stop food from spoiling. Now the fires licked at the stone roof above, turning the grey to black.

"Now!" came a shout, and the Stonehelm turned to see the craftsmaster Bani, her glasses askew, holding her hand high. "Shoot!"

Arrows sped from one side of the room, each hitting a waterskin or sack. The barrels fell like artillery, water hissing and steam rising in a great cloud.

"Keep pulling!" shouted Bani. "Bomfrís, another rope-arrow!"

Barís squinted, her hand before her mouth. "I think we've halted its spread!"

"Buckets!" Thira bellowed, and all around, Dwarves and Elves and Men worked as one. The Men filled the skins and buckets with water from the deep pools where the River Running sprang beneath the Mountain. Elves then ran with them upon their light feet to the storehouses. Many Elves stood to one side with their bows to the ready, and Laerophen, Selga and Merilin were among them. Once the water had arrived, it was the Dwarves that strung it up upon the ropes, naturally better able to withstand the heat than the other races.

"Sand!" Barís called, and her marvellous voice soared through the halls and corridors. None could match it in power and projection. The buckets and skins kept moving, filled with wet sand rather than water.

"That's two rooms put out!" came the cry, and a ragged cheer rose from the assembled Dwarves. Some ran forward, their faces shielded with the heavy dragon-fire helms, to stamp out the last tongues of flame.

"This'll ruin whatever's left," grumbled Gimrís.

"It's smoke-damaged already, ain't it?" Bofur shouted. "Here, I can haul a rope! Point me the way! All I can see is a big red blur."

"A blur?" Gimrís actually dropped her bucket. "Right mister. You're coming with me after this. You might get part of your sight back after all! But if that's… oh, it must be…"

"Stop being a healer now, me ruby, and point me at a rope!" Bofur barked, and he grabbed at Gimrís' shoulder. "I don't give a tin shilling for my eyes if the rest o' me's about to get barbecued!"

"Haul!" sang out Barís. The buckets wobbled on their rope, and spilled just as they were meant to over the doorway. "The third room! Can we get close enough yet?"

"I can't see, I can't get close enough," Bomfrís shouted back.

"What in _Durin's name_ are you doing here?" the Stonehelm said, alarmed. Her mouth set in a pugnacious sort of pout.

"Helping. And before you get all worried at me, I already cleared it with Gimrís."

"She did!" Gimrís called."She's in the most ventilated…"

"Stop gossiping, the lot of you!" Thira growled. "Minds back on the job!"

"But has it worked?" Barís wrung her hands. "We've doused the edges, and it's not likely to spread…"

"Then it will die once it has used up all the fuel," Bani finished, and she wiped her forehead with her arm. "Hot work. And good work. That was a fine plan, Songbird."

"ASK HER!" Bomfrís hissed.

Barís deliberately turned her back on her sister.

"Once it has used up all the fuel," said the Stonehelm slowly. And he looked back at the last smoldering room, where the last of their food, so carefully collected and stored, was burning.

* * *

When Thorin woke, he was disoriented. There had been fire… and smoke. The dragon! No. No, that was long ago, and in another life.

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and wiped his hands down his face, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. They felt dry and itchy. He could use more sleep, but something told him that he would not find it. His legs were restless.

Standing, he began to dress and to prepare his hair. He tied off his braids in his old style, and then began combing his short beard. Peering in his flower-wreathed mirror, he sighed. It was getting longer again. One hand fumbled for the scissors. Finding them, he brought them up to his beard, using the comb to keep the hairs straight.

And paused.

Thorin studied himself for a moment. Just an ordinary-looking Dwarf, past middle-age and edging towards his silver years, scarred and battered, but still hale. Soft, weary blue eyes, a thin and stubborn mouth, dark hair touched with frost. Nothing more, nothing less, and no better or worse than any other, really.

On a peculiar half-formed whim, he slowly laid down the scissors and comb with a _click-click._

Then he twisted the tufting end of his beard between his thumb and forefinger. "A shorn beard is not a shorn grief, my star," he murmured. "Not bad, as advice goes." Nodding to himself, he turned away from the mirror and strode from the room with renewed vigour.

Perhaps he would be able to braid it by Durin's Day.

* * *

"Well, I'm going," said Merry, shuffling his feet. He gave an apologetic smile to Faramir and Éowyn as they sat by his little bed. "They're sending for me. Riders from Cair Andros have the message, and I'm well enough to ride… or so the Healers say."

"Indeed you are, Master Merry!" said Ioreth, bustling about and packing away Merry's things in his rucksack. "I've not seen so remarkably fast a recovery in… well, all my born years! My sister, now, she might have a word or two to say on it. She's from the country, and coming to the City, did I mention? She learned alongside me with the old Healer here…"

"You did mention, yes," Merry said, and his amusement was poorly hidden.

"Several times," said Faramir, and there was nothing but helpful politeness in his tone. Merry turned a chuckle into a cough. Éowyn's eyes flickered to Faramir, as though surprised at this brief flash of humour.

"She'll be here with the morning," Ioreth bubbled happily. "Oh, isn't it marvellous to have the roads safe to travel again?"

"I shouldn't call them very safe just yet," Merry said, and he hopped down from his bed and picked up his bag. "But I am sure of her safe arrival, nevertheless! Now, you shouldn't be doing that for me, you've been a wonder already. My arm is perfectly up to the task of stuffing my old clothes in a bag. Why, without you, I'd probably still be wheezing and moping about the place, complaining of the cold!"

"Oh, get on with you," Ioreth said, clearly pleased. "T'wasn't me, it was the Lord Elstone. He's the King you know, and I was the first to know it. _The hands of the King are the hands…"_

"Of a healer," chorused the other three, and Ioreth deflated.

"Oh, did I tell you that one already as well?"

"Peace, good woman!" Faramir said, and there was a laugh in his voice. "Perhaps you can take some well-deserved rest. Perhaps a cup of tea? There shall be much to tell your sister tomorrow."

"Oh, bless you, Lord Faramir, dear," she said, and pressed a hand against her cheek. "No wonder the people love you so. Well, I'll be off then. Mind you wrap up warm, little Master!"

"My word upon it," said Merry solemnly. "I shall be the toastiest Hobbit in Middle-Earth."

Ioreth beamed at him. Then the talkative healer picked up her basket and bustled out of the room.

"She's a good woman, but my word, she could give old Iris Grubb's tongue a run for her money," said Merry. "Well, off I go! I'm told Pippin has made it through the battle in one piece - if a slightly squashed piece. A new age of miracles indeed!"

"Give him my thanks, and my affectionate greetings," Faramir said. "If not for that young rogue, I should have been cinders."

"You could come too." Merry paused, his rucksack half-looped upon his back. "You both could. I'm told we're going by ship, and there's a lot more room on one of those than upon a boat."

Éowyn's face grew hard. "I will stay."

"I had heard your brother had sent for you," Faramir said. "I must stay and take up my duties as Steward, however brief they may be. But nothing hold you here."

In Éowyn's eyes, two warring compulsions battled. "Do not ask me again," she said shortly. "I will stay. I am not wholly healed, I am sure of it."

Merry looked between them, before he hoisted his pack high and took up the little sword they had given him, and his Rohirrim horse-helm. "Then I shall see you when we get back, I suppose," he said, as brightly as he could. "Don't go doing anything madly heroic in the meanwhile, my Lady. I wouldn't feel right about it if I weren't by your side!"

"Safe travels, Merry," said Éowyn, and she put aside her confusion to kiss his brow. "Be well."

"And you," he murmured, low. "I hope you are able to find a happy moment, here and there, now that the shadow is gone for ever."

"I feel the shadow in my heart," she answered, and said no more.

Faramir stood at the city wall and watched the small figure leave from the broken gate far below. Éowyn would not wave him farewell, and stayed away.

* * *

"Well, if you're sure, then I'm coming too." Dáin propped himself out of his fireside chair and stretched. "Ow. That was some night, lads."

Thorin laughed, low and weary. Only Dáin could refer to the most cataclysmic event of their Age as 'some night'.

That terrible night had been nearly three days ago, now. Thorin himself had slept for nearly thirty-nine hours, and both Fíli and Kíli had slept for over two days straight.

Frerin looked up at Thorin, a half-smile on his face. "You look better after getting some rest. I could have sworn you were nearly three hundred when Dáin brought you back."

"Why not four hundred, make it as ridiculous as possible," Thorin retorted, and tugged his brother close. "And how do you fare?"

"Better." Frerin's eyes peered up through the fall of messy golden hair, and they shone with health and hope. "Much better."

"Have any been watching?"

"On and off. The world's just. Breathing. It's hard to describe." Frerin shrugged one shoulder. "People are finding their footing after what's happened, trying to come to terms with it, trying to figure out what happens now. It's both happy and… I don't know. It's like that silence you get after an avalanche."

"Frodo?" Thorin could not face Bilbo again if Frodo had succumbed to his hunger and sorrow.

"Alive, or so Fíli says. That was a day ago, though. Gimli kept watch over him and Sam this morning, apparently."

"Then let's go see what your boy's been up to since we've been gone," Dáin said, slapping his thighs and leading the way towards the Chamber. "Spilling the very secrets of the Seven Parents, no doubt - or perhaps teaching the Elf some more Khuzdul. That was a scene and a half; the news is already halfway around the Halls, and it's sparked a pretty argument or two. Never seen Balin so red before."

"Well, at least Óin's a little less put-out," Frerin offered.

"Oin is resigned to the inevitable, there's a difference." Dáin grinned. "Last one in's an Orc's breechcloth."

Somehow the stars were muted this time. Thorin did not find himself blinded, and he did not experience the usual disorienting fall through the waters. Instead he felt almost as though he were being cradled; carried along in gentle arms that bore him into the waking world and the new sunlight.

"That's a _lot_ of horses," said Frerin, and Thorin blinked a little before he found himself facing a huge makeshift tent city. A corral was fenced to one side, and horses grazed or ran or lay in the dappled shade, their hides twitching with the wind.

"I assume that is to be expected when travelling with the Rohirrim," he said. "Surely it cannot be the only such field. There were thousands upon thousands of Riders."

"The air's so full of the smell of horse that it practically whinnies," Dáin said, wrinkling his nose. "Come on, let's get out of here before we step in something."

"Dáin. You rode pigs _._ "

"Correction. I rode _house-trained_ pigs."

"Those tents look important," said Frerin, and he pointed. Sure enough, a circle of large pavilions had been erected. The White Horse flew from the highest beam of one of the tents, and a swan-prowed ship from another. And in the middle, glittering in the mid-morning sun, was the mithril-embroidered star of Elendil upon black.

They found Gimli within, as well as Legolas. The Dwarf was turning something small over in his hands, and smiling down at it. Thorin's breath snagged as he caught the gleam of gold in those broad fingers - but no, it was not… it was not. He had seen it destroyed with his own eyes. This seemed to be nothing more than a golden hair-bead, smashed flat.

"Can't believe you kept it all this time," Gimli said, and he couldn't seem to wipe the foolish grin off his face. It made him look young again. "We weren't even friends."

"I shall never forget it," Legolas said, and he rested his chin upon Gimli's shoulder. "I kept it to remind myself not to pride myself or my people overmuch. I had been so sure, you see. And in moments and with nothing more than your hands, you proved me wrong. The first time of many!"

"Ach, that's a poor memory, then. For I've become rather fond of Elves these days, and they've plenty of reason for pride." Gimli turned the bead around, his thumb fitting into the shallow, curved depression as neatly as a stacked bowl.

"How very far they have come," said Frerin, wonderingly.

"Far indeed," Thorin said.

"And farther still to go," said Gimli, his eyes lifting. "Idmi."

Thorin's answer was full of all the love and pride he could muster. "Idmi." Then he looked down at the bead. "You should refashion it."

"I haven't the tools," Gimli said, and he flipped the little disc in the air and let it fall onto his palm. Legolas watched, eyes watchful and shining. "And for what purpose?"

"You know what purpose."

Gimli flipped the flattened bead again, and Legolas snatched it out of the air with bird-quick reflexes. Gimli chuckled. "Aye, the thought crossed my mind. Possibly."

"Possibly? Possibly what?" said Legolas, and then after beat: "Oh, invisible dead Dwarves again."

Dáin barked a laugh, even as Gimli snorted and nodded. "Invisible dead Dwarves again, my One. My guide tells me that I should refashion the bead for a new purpose."

"And what purpose is that?" Legolas' hand closed tightly around the flattened bead, as though he were reluctant to part with it.

"Yes, Gimli, what purpose is that?" Frerin sing-songed.

"Your brother is pert, Lord," Gimli grumbled.

"Your sister is worse. Tell him," said Thorin, and he folded his arms.

Gimli muttered a little beneath his breath (about interfering relatives, no doubt), and then turned a little where he sat to look up at the Elf. "It would be a marriage-bead, if I were to have my way," he said bluntly. "It has meaning and history to both of us, and gold is often used in a wedding-braid. But I have not the tools to work with. Perhaps in Minas Tirith they will have them, though I was always an indifferent smith."

"You swung the hammer too hard," Legolas recalled.

"Aye, like it were an axe." Gimli peered up at Legolas' face. "Does this idea suit you?"

"It does." Legolas opened his hand and looked down at the little bead. "I would be proud to wear it."

"It would raise some interesting questions, were he to wear it further North," said Dáin.

"That's a point," Gimli sighed. "How in Mahal's name are we to broach this with our families? For if what Aragorn tells us is true, most of the gathered Armies of the West know that we are…"

"Involved?" Legolas finished delicately. Gimli pinched him on the thigh. "Stop that. I believe he was teasing us, meleth. Surely it is only half the Armies."

Gimli shook his head, smiling.

The amused look faded from Legolas' face. "You do raise the doubt that continues to prick at my mind, however. My people do not require permission to wed, but I would not dishonour you nor hurt my family by keeping us a secret. I think," and his eyes grew wide.

"What?"

"Before the battle," Legolas breathed. "You said it, clear as thunder! _I shall write to Thranduil himself and tell him all the ways I love you."_

"Ach!" Gimli wiped a hand down his face. "The things a fellow says before he faces death! Well, if you wish it, ghivashelê. This shall be a dangerous letter indeed: I hope to survive the writing of it!"

"No, no," Legolas shook his head, his hair swinging. "I will write my father and brothers. You must write to your family, elen nín. We shall tell them in ink and parchment, so that they will know of what has befallen between us. They shall not be forced to hear it from others, and will be become more… used to the idea."

"You've met my father. Does he seem like a Dwarf who grows accustomed to new things?" said Gimli with wry humour. "Or does he seem the type to arrange matters to his own satisfaction?"

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "What happened to 'what could be more fearsome that the hordes of Mordor'?"

"I found the answer: it is my sister's wit," said Gimli promptly.

"I cannot see another way. And your silver tongue shall soon convince them."

Gimli winced. "I am not as expressive with a pen as I am with my tongue. And how should I even begin such a letter?"

"You do well enough," Thorin said, at once approving of the plan. "Tell the matter straight. Glóin will not understand at first, no more than I did. But he is no fool."

"My mother will be worried," Gimli sighed.

"My father will be terrible," agreed Legolas. "But what else can we do? The alternative is to keep this from them for long months, only to spring it upon them, all unannounced, upon our return."

"Stop arguing, my star," Thorin told him.

"But it's his primary method of communication," Dáin said. Frerin snickered.

"He'll never speak again."

"Very well, I'll do it, quit teasing me." Gimli looked as if he would rather walk the Paths of the Dead again, but he laid a hand over Legolas', over the little golden bead. "Letters it is."

* * *

"Haven't seen hide nor hair of her," sighed Jeri. "I've all my guards looking."

"Well, if we're lucky, she won't turn up again," said Bard, his lip curling. "I've no wish to deal with her. Bad enough I've got to handle the other one."

"Why did they _do_ this?" Mizim groaned. "There's barely a scrap in the whole Mountain. They complained of not getting their due, and now there is nothing."

Bard spread his hands helplessly. "I cannot answer," he said. "I have never understood their ways."

"If they can't have it all, then nobody can have a crumb," muttered the Stonehelm. "No, I am not sure I understand them either."

Bard glanced up at the Stonehelm, and his face softened. "I think we shall get on well, you and I."

"If we all don't end up eating each other," said Glóin gloomily. "Dori, you got the result?"

Dori, his chest bound tightly and his eyes bruised in pain, cleared his throat and winced. "Yes, Mister Glóin. There's only one barrel of the wine left."

A unision moan rose around the table.

"And no beer," Dori said apologetically. "It all went up, quick as winking. There's some preserved fish, although perhaps we should call it smoked fish now?" He waited a beat, looking expectantly around at the stony faces. Then he said, "ignore that, just my little way of lightening the mood… ahem. No flour. It's tremendously flammable, sad to say. A couple of barrels of apples made it through. Some dried fruit."

"It wasn't enough _before,"_ said Barís, rather sadly.

"You tried," Bani said, and reached over to hesitantly touch the master-singer upon her shoulder. "At least you tried, eh?"

Barís nodded, not speaking.

"Now that the Orcs and Easterlings are departing, perhaps we can go look further south? There's hunting to be had in the upper reaches of Mirkwood. A small party might make it through the disbanding army," Jeri suggested, and they stood up straighter at the prospect of travel.

"That's an idea." Glóin made a note. "And there's always fish."

"Not so many," the Stonehelm said, and he rubbed at his temple, the boar-horn clacking against his earring. "An entire winter with three peoples trapped in the Mountain has denuded the River Running of most of the fish. Not even the eels are as plentiful."

Gimrís pulled a face. "I _hate_ eel. It smells awful."

"Everything smells awful," Bomfrís grumbled, and she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Mizim patted her back comfortingly.

"There's the winterberries on the Mountain, or there were," said Bofur, scratching under his hat. "Doubt that Orcs have a taste for 'em. They make a decent pie."

"You need flour for a pie," Thira said, without looking up from Dori's tally.

"Oh." Bofur looked crestfallen. "See, Bombur would have known that."

There was a short silence.

"I judge that we have a day before old tensions arise and cracks begin to form," the Stonehelm said, and he scrubbed his face roughly. "What else can we scrounge or scavenge?"

"Not enough," said Thira sadly.

"The ravens might know," Bomfrís said, and she uncurled all at once and leapt to her feet. "I'll go ask Tuäc!"

"I shudder to think what a raven might find palatable," Dori said, even as Glóin nodded and marked it down.

"The battle-pigs," said Dwalin, heavy and unhappy. "The goats."

The Stonehelm's eyes slammed shut. He breathed heavily through his nose for a moment, before he gave a single, short nod.

"That's a hard, hard blow," said Bard, with sympathy.

"I do not understand," said Laerophen, his brow creasing.

"Pigs ain't just pets, they're like… a horse, an' a friend. They're smart as spit. And the King was from the place where the pigs are from," came a little voice from under his chair.

"How does he always get where he's not meant to be," Gimrís sighed to Bofur, who shrugged.

"What else," said the Stonehelm, his voice a little ragged.

"We shall continue to shoot from the higher sconces?" Merilin said, and Selga nodded.

"We're all going to have to tighten our belts, I'm afraid," Glóin announced, finishing his list with a little flourish.

"They were already just about as tight as they could go," said Bani.

Glóin scowled at her. He was just about to retort when a mournful-sounding report split the air. It was followed by a chorus of similar calls, all resounding through the air and muffled by the stone.

"Oh, what _now?"_ cried Mizim.

"Someone at the front door, I assume?" Bard said, and the look he turned on the Stonehelm was resigned and grim.

"No," breathed Laerophen."That is no orc-horn."

* * *

_and so the world learns to breathe again_

The days turned, and Frodo and Sam did not wake. Two whole weeks passed, and they slept on. Terrible nightmares visited them in the small hours, making them cry out in their sleep - but still they did not wake. Aragorn no longer tried to rouse them, but tended to them himself. He soaked rags in broth and in water and in milk for them, and pressed the Athelas water upon their brows.

"It would be the cruellest thing indeed if they were not to survive this," Fíli whispered. Thorin glanced at him sidelong, and saw the deep affection his nephew bore for these two Hobbits, beyond any call of duty. He breathed in realisation, and tugged Fíli close.

"We have trusted in hope this far," he told him, and cupped his chin. "I know it is hard, namadul. But they are strong."

"You don't have to tell me that," Fíli mumbled, and leaned his forehead against Thorin's shoulder. Thorin wrapped his arm around him, and together they waited for another night, and the nightmares.

"Just breathe, Fíli," he said, with all the quiet reassurance he could muster. "Just breathe."

* * *

Dear Da and Mum, Gimrís and Bofur,

I'm alive. I'm not hurt. I'm not wounded. I'm eating. I'm wearing my helm, I promise.

I have worried constantly about the Mountain. Is all well with our family? Are you hale? I heard of the death of Dáin, and I sorrow with you. May Mahal watch and protect him. Do our friends prosper? How does Dale?

You will know this from other messengers, no doubt, but the War is won at last and the Quest has succeeded. My friend Aragorn is now King in Gondor and Arnor, and there is much work to be done. I have pledged the work of my hands and mind to rebuilding the Gates of Minas Tirith, and would see many of our people join me in making strong both the city and our friendships with Men. Too, I have found the most glorious place in the White Mountains above Rohan. I must speak to our new King about it. But. That's not what this letter is about.

I've found my One.

I would tell you this in my own voice and in the same room, if I were able. But with things the way they are, well, we are no longer unknown, not even here in Minas Tirith. Indeed, we're rather famous, it seems? Anyway, all this is to say: you may hear the news thanks to rumour and gossip, and I would prefer it to come first from me.

This is hard to put to paper, but I will try it in one strike, and perhaps it will sting less. Here goes: You may have already deduced that my One is no Dwarf. Aye, he is not. He is an Elf.

Please, put the letter down and do not throw it in the fire. Mum, please stop Da from throwing the letter in the fire.

Gimrís, sit on him if you must. At least until he calms down enough for the rest.

Bofur, stop laughing.

Here is the rest: He is Legolas Thranduilion, the son of Thranduil. He is in fact the very Elf who once insulted Mum and called me a 'goblin mutant'. He makes truly appalling first impressions. It's sort of breathtaking, how poor they are.

Bofur, I said stop laughing.

I have not lost my mind. I am not writing this under duress. I am not under some ridiculous Elf-spell or bewitchment. This is not some flight of fancy or passing infatuation. I am perfectly aware of what I do and where my heart has found its home.

He is not as I thought him to be. I am not as he thought me to be. The past is more complicated than we were ever led to know. We were both entirely, completely, grievously wrong. About many, many things. And I thank Mahal and all the Valar that I know better now.

The whole story is long (and full of tedious walking, horses, boats and running). But suffice to say that my eyes have been opened, and I see more clearly now than I have ever done.

Legolas will return with me to the North, after we have seen our friend crowned and the Hobbits healed, and after we have attended to a small journey that we have pledged to each other. We wish to wed. Legolas wishes to meet with you, and I with his family and people.

I want only peace between my beloved and my family. I will understand if your reception is chilly, but for love of me, I beg that you receive us, that you hear him with an open and unclouded heart, and leave the past where it lies - for now.

I love you all. I miss you all dearly.

Gimli

P.S. All right, Bofur, you can laugh now.

* * *

My beloved King and father, my dear and valiant brothers,

I will be home before the snows fall again. I have missed you. So very much. The lands to the south are warmer than our woods, but the winds blow strangely and the sea-birds call in voices that are hard to ignore. I have missed our trees and our rivers. I have not heard a Silvan accent in what feels like decades, and these stately Galadhrim and the steel-eyed Peredhil make me feel gauche and incomplete.

Aragorn is king, but his kingdom lies ruined, exhausted from centuries of watchful suspicion and outright war. The olvar here are starved for the sun: the spume of Mordor now dissipates, but it has choked the life from much that is green and good. I have begun whispering to them, coaxing them to put forth leaves and stretch high, but the plants are as weary and frightened as the people.

I long to be home, where wild roots sink deep and strong into the earth and not even darkness can tear them free. Soon, I will begin the journey. I have a promise to keep, to go south to visit the White Mountains and from thence to see the Onodrim and wander the ancient boles of Fangorn. I think that they would approve of what I do here, with these frightened young trees.

After I have seen to my promise and to the mountains and the woods, my feet will turn northwards, and home.

~~My hus~~

~~I would have you meet my~~

I will be bringing a guest: Gimli, son of Glóin, a Dwarf-Lord of Erebor. He is one of the Nine Walkers, the champion of Galadriel of Lothlorien. She bestowed upon him three hairs from her head.

You read that correctly.

~~He is also the one to whom I plight my~~

I love him.

You also read that correctly.

It grieves me to know that my love will cause you more pain. I do not love him to hurt you. I love him because he is brave and kind and noble and great of heart. Because he has brown eyes and a warm smile, and his hands could crush bone but he holds me so gently. Because he is Gimli, and no other.

I write these words not to warn you, nor hurt you. I love you, and I am proud to be your son, your brother, proud to walk Middle-Earth wearing the emblems of the Greenwood. I write these words to give you time, and to prepare you. I would not spring Gimli and the nature of our connection upon you, nor you upon him, without first telling you of what has transpired.

Much of what you know of Dwarves is wrong. I beg of you, put aside old tales, caricatures and suspicions, and meet Gimli with an open heart and clear eyes. He will surprise you. He is endlessly surprising.

I did not care for him at first. I thought I despised him. I thought every cruel thing that has ever been spoken was true. Yet he was ever-faithful, ever-stalwart and generous and true, even in the face of terror and grief and disdain. Our journey has torn away every false belief, and slowly I have learned to see Gimli, just as he learned to see me. Once I saw him, truly saw him, then I could not help but love him.

Laindawar, please do not sneer at him. He is a Dwarf, yes, he is smaller than you, bearded and broad and thick-bodied. He is also a mighty warrior, and though he is quick to anger he is quick to forgive – and how he forgives. His heart could contain the whole world. He knows little of trees, but much of home.

Laerophen, I pray you do not account yourself wiser than him. The Dwarves may have lost much of their records, what with their sorrowful history, but there is much we do not know and will never know. He sees this world differently to you or I, but no less clearly. He has secrets upon secrets, his eye is keen, and his mind is quick.

~~Father, I cannot NOT love him, not even for y~~

Adar, forgive me for the direction of my heart. ~~And please do not drain the wine-stores dry~~

And also I beg that you forgive me this: Gimli's grandmother was a Firebeard. Her name was Haban. She died at Moria, during the terrible War of Orcs and Dwarves so many years ago. She was an honest and hard-working trader who travelled far and wide, transporting her goods from Ered Luin to the Iron Hills and between. She was a loyal soul and a clever one: the old tales make her people seem like monsters, but she puts the lie to them. She was a good Dwarf. Gimli has her red hair.

Last but not least painful: He is the son of one that we imprisoned, eighty years ago. The one with the red fire-touched hair and the scar over his brow is Glóin, Gimli's father. Thorin Oakenshield is Gimli's cousin. I mocked his family and stole his image, long before I ever saw his face.

He has long since forgiven me, and will soon forgive you for love of me.

Galadriel calls him 'Lock-Bearer', but he holds my whole heart in his great and gentle hands.

I can only hope that your hearts are gentle in return.

Your son and brother,

Legolas Thranduillion, Prince of Greenwood the Great

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> **_Khuzdul_**  
>  _Shuf! – Ooof!_  
>  _Mahal tadnani astû – Mahal guide you_  
>  _âzyungelê – Love of all loves_  
>  _ghivashelê – Treasure of all treasures._  
>  _Mi targê - By my beard (an expression used to indicate astonishment; shock.)_  
>  _Namadul - sister's son_  
>  _Nadad - brother_  
>  _Nadadith - little brother_
> 
> _..._
> 
> **_Sindarin_**  
>  _Goheno nín - forgive me_  
>  _Meleth nín - my love_  
>  _Elen nín - my star_  
>  _Taembeng - Long Bow_  
>  _Deri, Ionneg - wait, my son_  
>  _Elbereth, Anno dulu enni - Varda, help me_  
>  _Lasto beth nin - Hear my voice!_  
>  _Noro lim! Toro, noro lim! - ride fast! Come, ride fast!_  
>  _Gwaem - let's go_
> 
>   _..._
> 
> Before he was known as Sauron ("The Accursed"), he was known as Mairon ("The Admirable"), and was a Maia of Aulë.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from the chapters, "The Field of Cormallen" and "The Steward and the King".  
> Thranduil is referring to Chapter 14: "strong enough to shatter."
> 
> ...
> 
> _THANK YOU SO SO SO SO MUCH - I am so grateful, from the very bottom of my heart, for every kudos and every kind word. This very (VERY) long journey has been a joy, because of you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting for this, and for all your support and care while I was ill. Love you all to pieces.
> 
> (Especial thanks to dain-mothafocka and poplitealqueen for moodreading it and making me feel like I wasn't rusty as an old <3 This chapter's for you.)

 

Laerophen fell into his father’s arms with a cry of “Ada!” To the astonishment of many of the welcoming party of Dwarves, the Elvenking held him tightly in return.

“My son, my son,” he said, soft and heartfelt, against Laerophen’s silvery hair. Then he pulled back and looked into the other’s face, touching it with gentle fingertips. “You have been through much, in your absence.”

“I have.” Laerophen bowed his head. When he raised it their eyes were at the same level. Laerophen was a little taller than Thranduil, but his shoulders were slightly stooped. He was gangling where his father was lean and graceful, yet there was such a similarity in their profiles that many blinked, seeing double. “Some of it… surprising.”

Thranduil’s smile was tiny, but real. “It is good to see you well and whole.”

Laerophen smiled back, blue eyes glowing. “And you.”

“You have been treated adequately?”

“Far more than that. With all respect and care,” said Laerophen, and one of his rare glowing smiles flashed over his face. “With friendship and love and honour.”

“Yes,” said Thranduil slowly, considering. “As you say. Most surprising.”

Then Laindawar pushed through the ranks of the Elven host to where his brother stood, and he grabbed Laerophen’s arm, hauling him into a brief rough hug that was over almost before it had begun.

Thrór, watching, was able to see the quick expression of gladness that crossed Laindawar’s stern face as it pressed against his brother’s shoulder.

“How has your head fared, honeg?” he said, briskly. “I see your time amongst the Naugrim has not cured you of your ridiculous height.”

Laerophen’s brows knitted. “And you are as short and disagreeable as ever, honeg,” he said. “Do not call them that.”

Laindawar blinked, but his surprise was hidden in an instant. “Very well, I shall not.”

“He’s weirder than you ever were,” came a small whisper by Laerophen’s knee, and the tall elf smiled again.

  
  
Gimizh meets Laindawar, by [Shipsicle](http://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/149925988520/gimizh-for-determamfidds-amazing-and-massive)  


“That is only to be expected. He is my older brother, young one, and to be odd is a family trait, we are told.”

Laindawar was not able to conceal his shock quite so neatly this time, as the small slightly-grubby hand of Gimizh rose and tugged at Laerophen’s tunic. “Can you tell me about them? I dun have a brother or sister.”

“I can do better: I shall introduce you.” Laerophen bent and gently ushered the child forward. “Gimizh son of Bofur, this is my brother Laindawar and my father Thranduil.”

Gimizh stuck one of his bright red braids into his mouth and squinted up at the bewildered pair. “I heard about you,” he announced brightly to Thranduil. “You’re the one my Da calls-”

“All right, lad, no need to go telling him,” Bofur interrupted hurriedly.

“Do you suppose ours will be anything like that?” Bomfrís said, somewhere in the background. She sounded somewhat distressed.

Behind the Stonehelm, Jeri was in silent hysterics, their shoulders jumping with suppressed laughter.

Thranduil’s eyes snapped away from the child to where the Stonehelm was groaning into his hands. The Elvenking’s face had not changed at all: there was not even the twitch of a muscle to betray his feelings. Still, everyone who watched got the distinct impression that he was amused. “Majesty,” he said, and inclined his head. “I offer you my consolations on the death of your father. His is a sad loss.”

The Stonehelm straightened to look up at the Elvenking with a measuring expression. “Thank you. Your Majesty.”

There was a pause, and the two regarded each other warily.

Then Thranduil lifted his hand, slow and languid, and the entourage behind him snapped to attention as one, their armour glinting in the thin winter sunlight. “We have brought provisions,” he said, not a trace of urgency in his voice or expression. His eyes, however, took in the new scars upon the Stonehelm’s arms and nose, the brutally-cropped beard, the marks of battle upon his armour, and the hollows of his cheeks.

The Stonehelm looked very little like the Dwarf that had made embassy to the Greenwood, so many months ago. That Dwarf had been eager to prove himself. He had been untried, desperate for recognition, frustrated by delay or setback, equally frustrated by his own shortcomings; new, green and quick to exasperation and temper. This new King looked a decade older, calm and settled in his skin – and tired, so utterly tired, Thrór thought sadly. Kingship had a way of doing that.

Someone did not share Thranduil’s unhurried attitude. “Food!” shouted Barur Stonebelly, his fist rising triumphantly into the air. “Mahal and all the Valar be thanked, _food!”_

The shout spread around the crowd like excited wildfire, and the Stonehelm nodded to Dwalin. “Open the doors!” Dwalin roared, and he brought down his hammer upon the war-drum, signalling the Dwarves inside to work the great mechanism.

The Stonehelm glanced up at Thranduil. “And what shall we owe you for such largesse?” he said. He was polite, but resigned.

“It does not warrant payment,” Thranduil said without once looking down at the Dwarf-King, and he strode through the mighty doors of Erebor as they swung open on their massive hinges. His head turned neither left nor right, his chin lifted proudly and his crown set perfectly upon his elegant head.

Laerophen sent a distracted and apologetic smile to the Stonehelm, before falling into place at his brother’s side, following in their father’s wake.

“What d’you suppose that’s about?” Bomfrís whispered as the welcoming party escorted the Elves into the Mountain. She was a poor dissembler: threading her arm through her lover’s and hissing in his ear was not the most surreptitious way of speaking.

The Stonehelm shook his head helplessly, scratching at his beard in puzzlement. “Perhaps your elf-friend might tell us.”

Bomfrís looked ready to argue, but held her tongue with poor grace.

“There’s always a price,” Dís grunted, folding her arms. “I do not trust easy gifts from a fickle giver.”

“I’m not turning away food we sorely need,” said the Stonehelm from the corner of his mouth. “But what can we do?”

“Not much,” Bomfrís said. “Brazen it through with your head held high, is what I say. We may be down, but we’re not done.”

“Nicely said,” murmured Thrór.

“I do not know what Thranduil intends as yet. He does not behave as he has in the past. We must wait and see,” said Dís, and she motioned an arm for the King and his lover to take the lead.

News of food travels fast in a starving Kingdom. The cheer that arose as the Elves made their way into the first of the inner baileys was deafening, and many of the newcomers were wincing and putting their hands up to their ears. “How have you fared this way? My very head is ringing!” Laindawar shouted to Laerophen, who was visibly enjoying the spectacle.

“You grow accustomed to their enthusiasm, honeg!” Laerophen shouted back. “Ah, that reminds me - I must introduce you to the rest of the young ones! You will enjoy their company! I dare say they might coax a smile even from you!”

“What?”

“I said-”

“Oughtta wait until the drumming an’ the yelling’s over before you talk,” said a high voice, disapprovingly. Laindawar turned to see another small Dwarf with dark skin and a shock of hair standing high upon his head. His hair was braided at one temple in the manner of the warriors of his people, and there was clearly a sword-cut healing upon one cheek. Yet it was most definitely a child.

“You are correct, as always,” said Laerophen, his eyes fond. “Where are your brothers?”

The child grinned, white teeth bright in his brown face. “Nup! Can’t hear you!”

The Stonehelm held up a hand, and the racket dimmed ever so slightly. “We will not starve this winter,” he said, simply. “The Elvenking has come to help us.”

“Took him several centuries,” grumbled Thrór.

“We thank you,” said the Stonehelm, and he turned to Thranduil, and bowed in the full sight of all the gathered peoples – Elf, Man and Dwarf alike. There was a collective indrawn breath, and then whispering began to fill the ranks of the Elves and Men. The Dwarves muttered amongst themselves, but the stony eyes of Dís stared down every single dissenter.

“Nay, I must thank you,” said Thranduil, and the gasp that greeted these words actually echoed through the high vaulted room. “For you have saved more than you know. You repelled the army that would have burned my forest. Our freedom has been paid for with the blood of your people.”

Then the pale eyes flicked to where Laerophen stood, tall and rangy: the least impressive of his children to look upon, but the cleverest and gentlest of spirit. “My son I gave to you, to answer your plea for aid. It eases a father’s heart to see him now and hear his words. I did not expect fair treatment from your people, and nor did he – the tale between us is too long and bitter. And yet he speaks of honour, care and friendship - even love.”

Thranduil turned back to the Stonehelm, his long grey robe flicking behind him in an elegant arc. Then, unmistakably, he bowed in return, his arm sweeping gracefully behind him. “For my home, my people, and my son. For that which I truly hold dear.”

Thrór stared, and stared, and stared, as the noise grew until it lay upon the ears like a branding iron.

The Stonehelm said something that could not be heard, his hand outstretched, a smile upon his short-cropped face. Thranduil straightened in one sinuous movement, and reached out to grasp his wrist. His long fingers curved over the Stonehelm’s boar-embossed vambrace.

  


Thorin Stonehelm and Thranduil, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/149745168400/and-that-makes-100-sansukh-illustrations-i-love)  


"Once not so long ago, you would accept no thanks from a Dwarf," said the Stonehelm, nearly swallowed by the din. "I am glad to know this has changed."

There was a look of disbelief on Dís’ worn, lined face, and Dwalin was shaking his head in stubborn refusal. The Stonehelm said something else that Thrór could not hear, and Thranduil inclined his head. Then the two Kings dropped their clasped arms and made their way towards one of the Receiving Rooms: a negotiating place, of sorts.

“I don’t believe it,” Thrór told the universe at large. “I didn’t just see that.”

Bard was waiting by the door to the Receiving Room, and he threw propriety to the winds entirely. He grabbed and pumped Thranduil’s hand with enthusiasm, grateful tears standing in his eyes. Then he laughed with complete abandon and embraced the Stonehelm roughly, pounding his broad back with a fist.

Well, Thrór supposed that after all the desperate plans the two had tried, it might have forged a decent friendship between them. He was vaguely glad that Hrera hadn’t seen that display, however. Mahal only knew what she’d make of it.

The three monarchs left the massive hall for the inner chambers, Bomfrís and Dís in their wake, and the din began to ebb. Laerophen’s people rushed to greet their kin, and there were many tears and exclamations of relief. Dwarves scurried forward to relieve the Elves of their baskets and barrels, bowing and thanking them profusely. One of the barrels was broached on the spot, and the Dale-Men were singing as they rolled tubs and cheeses down towards the great cook-rooms. Barur Stonebelly directed the traffic like a general upon a battlefield.  

Finally, the young Dwarf that had spoken before turned to the two Elven princes with a businesslike little nod. “Right. What did you say?”

“I… cannot remember,” said Laindawar, faintly.

“Wee Thorin, this is my brother, Laindawar, Crown Prince of Eryn Lasgalen,” said Laerophen, his words tripping eagerly. “Honeg, this is Thorin son of Dwalin and Orla.”

“At your service,” said Wee Thorin. “Might as well call me Wee Thorin; everybody else does. I’ll be three hundred with a big white beard all down to my knees, an’ I’ll still be ‘Wee Thorin’. S’too many Thorins.”

“It is an honourable name,” said Laerophen. Wee Thorin shrugged.

“I don’t mind so much anymore. Not since…”

“Ah, I had heard they were calling you a different name these days.” Laerophen said, slyly laying a finger upon his lips. “How did it go, now. Was it Wee Dread Warrior of the Tunnels?”

“No, don’t be thick!” Wee Thorin scowled, and the resemblance to his father was amplified tenfold in the expression. “It’s Wee Shadowaxe.”

“Dumbaxe _,_ more like,” came Gimizh’s sulky voice from behind Laerophen’s knee.

“You’re just jealous cos I got an Appellation _already,_ an’ you just get called ‘demon child’ and that,” shot back Wee Thorin at once. “I’m the youngest Dwarf to get an Appellation since Ironfoot himself!”

“Yeah, well, it’s a _dumb_ appellation!”

“Is not! It’s better than ‘terror of Erebor’! You’re just jealous!”

“Shut up, trollbrain!”

“Make me, goblin breath! Oh wait, you can’t, _shorty!”_

“TAKE THAT BACK, YOU…!” Gimizh’s freckles could no longer be seen underneath the rising purple of his cheeks.

“Do you not like each other, then?” asked Laindawar, a little nonplussed. He glanced between the bickering Dwarflings with an uncomfortable air. Young elves – not that there were many of these – did not fight so openly.

“He’s my best friend,” they said in unison, glaring at each other.

Laerophen was laughing behind his hand, at the children and at his brother simultaneously. “Come, there is more to see! Lay aside your quarrel, my friends. Are we not all friends, did you not fight at my side? Let us show my brother here the greatness of your home, as you have shown it to me.”

Gimizh poked his tongue out at Wee Thorin, before he turned to Laindawar with an appraising look. “Yeah, awright,” he said. “Come on. Kitchens first, let’s see if anything slips out of those big baskets on the way….”

Laindawar’s face was motionless and stony, in that manner of Elven shock. “Is that not dishonest?”

Laerophen threw an arm around his shorter brother’s shoulders. Laindawar was as stiff and awkward as a coatrack. “Oh, honeg nin,” said Laerophen, beaming expansively. “You have _so_ much to learn.”

* * *

 

“They’re awake!” came the glad shout, echoing through the Halls. “They’re awake!”

Thorin’s head snapped up from his work. He had been staring blankly at the set of garden tools he was making, idly wondering which flowers to carve upon the handles. Upon hearing the call, his heart leapt high in his chest.

“They’re awake!” came Fíli’s joyous voice, soaring through every corridor and room. “Both of them! They’ve made it!”

“Nadad, do you hear!” Frerin came barrelling into his workroom, and Thorin caught him by the shoulders before he crashed into the bench. His face was smiling so broadly, he seemed like the young Dwarf he had been before the Battle once again. “They’ve come through it!”

“How could anyone not hear Fíli and Kíli making that racket,” he said, smiling back. “Want to go see?”

“Yes!” Frerin grabbed at his arm and tugged him away. Laughing, Thorin followed obediently.

When the light cleared, they could hear Sam grumbling. “Why should we put on those nasty things again? Honourable my foot. I’d prefer _comfortable_ , an’ something that doesn’t stink quite so much of Orc. Why’s Gandalf making us put these on again? I’ve had rags with more thread on ‘em.”

“Come on, Sam,” came Frodo’s quiet, tired voice. At least it sounded like there was a smile in the words, thought Thorin worriedly. He blinked away the starlight as swiftly as he could, and saw Sam lifting the orc-shirt he had worn in Mordor before him. “Put it on, it shan’t be for long.”

“Why should they put on those dreadful things again?” Frerin wondered.

“Because, Samwise Gamgee,” came the old, dry voice of Gandalf. “These things should be seen.”

“I don’t get it,” Frerin said, giving the wizard a deeply suspicious look. “Can’t they leave that behind them?”

“Nay, I think I understand,” Thorin said, and he watched as Frodo slowly shrugged the uruk-jerkin, the scar on his shoulder briefly visible. “If they were to step outside, clean and bright of eye, clad in fine clothes, none watching would ever suspect the full extent of what they have been through. These things should be given honour; the whole world should know what conditions this quest took them to, and give them thanks. Gandalf is right.”

“Will wonders never cease,” said Frerin, and he shivered as Sam cringed away from the orc-shirt against his clean skin. “Brr, I shouldn’t like to put that back on either.”

“Don’t like to,” Sam muttered, but he picked up the battered helm and clapped it upon his head nevertheless.

“Come now,” Gandalf said, gently. “Just for now. Then they shall be preserved, and I shall find you some other clothes.”

“Preserved!” Sam said, his mouth falling open in astonishment. Gandalf looked back at him, grave and steady.

“No silks and linens, nor any armour or heraldry could be more honourable.”

Sam stared at him a moment, and then shook his head. “Glory and trumpets,” he said in an aside to Frodo. “That’s a thing, isn’t it Mister Frodo! Preserving these old orc-rags.”

“Hurry as much as you can, my dear Hobbits,” said Gandalf. “The King is awaiting you.”

Thorin and Frerin followed the three from the tent where they had lain, out beyond the beech grove some distance from the rest of the encampment. Over a green lawn, and then into a small wood they walked in silence, listening to the calls of birds and drinking in the sunshine. Frodo turned his face up to the light, and he let out a sigh. The sounds of the trickling river came to Thorin’s ears, and he breathed in.

Eventually they came to an opening in the wood, where tall trees made an archway down towards the distant glimmer of water. There were moored many ships, bobbing lazily with the tide, and before them stood a huge host of Men. Their ranks glittered in the sun.

“Mister Frodo?” Sam whispered.

“Hold my hand, Sam,” Frodo whispered back.

It did not begin all at once. Like a growing wave, gathering momentum, the Men began to shout and roar with joy, their swords leaping from their scabbards in a salute. The wave passed on and on as the Hobbits walked through their ranks. Trumpets and horns sang, their notes rising into the air. People were singing, people were crying. Many bowed as Frodo and Sam passed them by, so deeply that their heads nearly touched the earth.

“Thank you,” came the words, over and over: gasped, sobbed, shouted. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ -”

“Something like this, you mean?” Frerin said, leaning up to Thorin’s ear.

Thorin smiled, and flung an arm over his brother’s shoulder, tucking him against his side and giving him an affectionate shake. “Something like.”

The formless roar was beginning to take shape, the songs beginning to coalesce into one, and overall the words could just be made out:

 _“Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!_  
_Cuio i Pheriain anann! Aglar’ni Pheriannath!_  
_Praise them with great praise, Frodo and Samwise!_  
_Daur a Berhael, Conin en Annûn! Eglerio!_  
_Praise them!_  
_Eglerio!_  
_A laita te, laita te! Andave laituvalmet!_  
_Praise them!_  
_Cormacolindor, a laita tárienna!_  
_Praise them! The Ring-bearers, praise them with great praise!”_

“If my Gaffer could see me now,” Sam said, blushing brighter than Thorin had ever seen.

“Look!” said Frodo, and he was wide-eyed. He pointed through the throng with his maimed hand to where three high seats had been placed, banners snapping and curling over them. The left was green emblazoned a white horse running. The right was blue, and upon it a swan-ship plunged into frothing waves.

But in the middle chair was - “Sam! _Look_!”

There was a Man seated upon the middle seat, and the mithril-threaded standard behind him glowed like the morning star. He was clad in mail, but he wore no helm. His short beard was clipped neatly, and he was smiling at them.

Behind the throne stood two odd, disparate figures: one broad and low and red, the other tall, slender and golden-white.

“Well? Go on,” said Gandalf, behind them.

Frodo did not hesitate, but ran as fast as he was able to meet the Man, who stood as they drew near. Sam was only a breath behind as always, and the two Hobbits nearly flung themselves at Aragorn as they tumbled over the hastily-dug steps.

“Well, if that isn’t the crown of all!” Sam said, clinging to him. “Strider, or I’m still asleep!”

“Yes, Sam, Strider,” said Aragorn, and he knelt down to look into the Hobbits’ faces, taking their hands. “It is a long way, is it not, from Bree, where you did not like the look of me? A long way for us all but yours has been the darkest road.”

And then with utter reverence and respect, he bowed his head low before them.

Sam’s face went totally, completely slack, and Frerin giggled at his confusion and awe.

Then Aragorn stood, still holding their hands, and with Frodo upon his right and Sam upon his left, he led them to the throne. He set them upon it, and turned to the vast host and spoke, his voice ringing like a drum:

“Praise them with great praise!”

The ensuing roar was _thunderous._

“I wish Bilbo were here to see this,” Thorin murmured, as Frodo’s eyes shimmered.

When the echoes had finally died away, a minstrel stepped forward with a fiddle in hand. “Lord, I beg leave to sing?” he said.

“Only if Mister Frodo’s up for it, mark you,” Sam said, and Aragorn laughed.

“Mind your audience, master. But it would please me.”

“Aye, just the moment for a song an’ a dance, and most _definitely_ an ale. We’ve a score to settle, ghivashelê,” came a low rumble from behind the throne. A hissed, ‘ _shhh, Gimli! This is a solemn occasion_!’ answered it.

The minstrel struck his fiddle for his note, and then called out over the throng, “Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.”

At that, Sam buried his face in his hands and shook. Aragorn seemed concerned, until Sam finally lifted his head and he was laughing and weeping all at once, the tears dripping down his cheeks. “O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!”

  


Sam at the Field of Cormallen, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/149745168400/and-that-makes-100-sansukh-illustrations-i-love)  


And all there gathered laughed and wept along with him, and the song of the minstrel was the most beautiful and sorrowful they had yet heard.

“Now it feels like it’s finally over,” Frerin said, and there were tears standing in his bright blue eyes. Yet he was smiling from ear to ear.

“Indeed,” said Gandalf softly. “The world has breathed out, at long last.”

As the day turned to a blushing dusk, the music grew more boisterous and cheerful. Skins were passed between the soldiers, regardless of their livery: a Gondorian pikeman handed his bottle to one of the bright-haired Rohirrim, who filled her mug and toasted her friend’s generosity before passing it to one of the Dúnedain.

Pavilions had been made ready by the river-side, where the meal was laid out upon great tables. The lowliest soldier ate beside the King, and from the same plates, and the music flowed as fast and as freely as the river-water below.

Frodo and Sam were led aside for a moment, and their old Orc-garments removed and replaced by clean linen (“as they should have done from the beginning!” Frerin said indignantly). Upon their return, Gimli could wait not a second longer. He strode up to the pair of Hobbits and caught them up high into his huge arms, their toes swinging clear off the ground.

“You,” he said, damply. “You wonderful Hobbits. Oh, bless you, lads, you dear brave lads. Bless you and thank you, and I’m gladder than I’ve ever been that you’re hale and well again.”

“Shan’t be for much longer if you don’t let me breathe, Mister Gimli sir!” Sam squeaked.

“Gimli’s enthusiasm is much unchanged,” said Legolas, smiling down as Gimli placed them back upon their feet. “As is his patience, I am sorry to report.”

“Hush you, Elf,” said Gimli, beaming at Sam and Frodo with tears standing in his eyes. His hands still clasped each of their little shoulders, as though he feared to let go. “For a time there I didn’t think you’d wake, my lads. Been watching you sleep unchanging for far too long, days and nights not stirring: it’s balm on my heart to see you both standing here today.”

Frodo smiled back. “I can see that there are more tales to tell than ours,” he said. His tone was genuine enough, but it seemed rather muted compared to the Hobbit Thorin could remember. “You do not protest at being told to hush, Legolas?”

“It is an unwinnable war. I have given up all protestations, as Gimli tells me to hush at least forty times a day,” Legolas said dryly.

“I’ll tell you at least once more than you tell _me_ ,” Gimli said, his brow arching and his dark eyes glinting. “I’m not about to break my winning streak. Sit, you two, sit! I’ll go get us a plate. You must be famished! Ahh, and there’s grouse and partridge – I’m going in before Pippin spots it and scoffs the lot.”

Gimli patted Legolas familiarly upon the knee, and then he darted into the crowd. Legolas turned back to the two rather baffled Hobbits and frowned at their confusion. Then understanding dawned in his face. “Oh. It appears that certain items of news have not made it to your ears yet.”

“Legolas, we didn’t even know that Strider was the _secret_ _King_. That’s not a great leap to make even for an Elf,” Sam said, and there was an edge in his voice. “Sommat’s going on between you two, that’s plain enough.”

“Yes.” Legolas sat, crossing his legs easily upon the ground. Sam cast about and found a blanket before helping Frodo sit beside him. “We are betrothed.”

Frodo’s face went slack in surprise, and Sam coughed and went rather red. “Um,” he said. “Do you – uh, I mean…”

“We know that it is not common practice in your Shire, for two men to love and marry,” Legolas continued. “Yet that is not true of either of our peoples. Still, I hope you will not think us unmannerly or alien for it. We are still Legolas and Gimli.”

“Oh, well. Not I, at any rate.” Sam was still a little wide around the eyes, but he stuck out his little hand nevertheless. Legolas shook it gravely. “Tain’t your worry, what worries the Shire. If you’re happy then I’m happier for it. Congratulations to the pair of you.”

“I knew of the customs of the Elves,” said Frodo. “I must confess, I’m more shocked by… well.”

“That we are Elf and Dwarf?” Legolas said, and his eyes gleamed with merriment. “Aye, true, we shall shock many before we are done, I think. But our hearts are given and there is no going back.” Then Legolas leaned forward, laying his hand gently over Frodo’s maimed fingers. “You have won for us a new world, Frodo, and so it stands to reason that there shall be new things in it.”

“Stands to reason,” said Sam, faintly.

“I see you told them,” came Gimli’s voice, and the dwarf sat with a thud, a large platter in one hand. “I took all the mushrooms I dared: I remember that you were particular towards them, Frodo.”

“I thank you!” Frodo said, and took a handful at once. “I scarce remember stealing mushrooms back home now. It seems a lifetime ago.”

Sam looked sad for a moment, before he shook himself and offered his hand to Gimli. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said, and stuck his little chin high in the air, holding his hand out for Gimli to take. It was nearly swallowed in Gimli’s axe-roughened fingers, the Dwarf shaking it carefully.

“My thanks, little hobbit,” he said. “We’re rather pleased about it, though it looks like to be a hard rock to hew. Still, the diamonds to be found there are without equal.” And he peered up at Legolas, fond and sly.

“Endless flattery is a rather pleasant contrast to endless enmity, I must say,” Legolas said lightly as an aside to Frodo, who smiled into his bowl of mushrooms.

Soon Pippin and Merry joined them, and then Gandalf. There was much exclaiming over the outsized height of the two youngest Hobbits, and Gandalf puffed his pipe and looked as pleased and as mysterious as ever. Legolas leaned his head upon Gimli’s shoulder, and the Dwarf lit his pipe also. He and Sam passed it between them as they shared their tales.

And such tales! Thorin had walked nearly every step beside his star, and yet to hear all of their travels condensed into a single evening of talk – it made his heart reel and his pride swell and shake, until it felt too large to be contained by his body, pressing beyond the boundaries of his flesh. “What you have done is beyond words,” he said, struck anew by the wonder of it all. He could not have said if he was talking to Gimli, or Frodo, or Legolas, or Sam, or Aragorn – or even Gandalf himself. The quest had been long, the task insurmountable, impossible – and it was done.

“Still don’t understand how you’re a good four inches taller than you were – and at your age, too!” Sam was saying, shaking his head at Merry and Pippin. “Stand up again and show me!”

“You see, dear Sam,” Pippin said, with a sage and knowledgeable air, “that’s the sort of thing happens when you are made a knight of Gondor and Prince of the Halflings, to boot.”

“Balderdash!” Sam snorted. “Prince of the Halflings? I’ve seen you snoring-drunk in a pig-pen at harvest dance time!”

“A dance is a fine idea,” said Merry, a little wistfully. “Feels like there ought to be, doesn’t it? But this minstrel fellow appears to be more of the courtly sort, all sad love-ballads and epic heroes and such.”

Sam flushed once more to hear himself and his beloved master referred to as ‘epic heroes.’

“It’s the fashion,” Gandalf spoke up. “Denethor encouraged it, I understand. The people of Gondor are long accustomed to celebrating the past, rather than enjoying the present or even looking to the future.”

“Makes sense,” said Merry, sighing. “My heels don’t agree, sadly. They’re interested in a jig or two, not the romances and battles of ancient Kings, no matter how noble.”

Gimli craned his head around to where the musicians were gathered, seated upon the massive roots of a gigantic fig tree. His expression brightened. “Well now, let’s see what I can do about that,” he said, and clambered to his feet.

“I am going to eat all of your grouse,” Legolas called after him.

“It is a good thing you sleep with an open eye, then!” Gimli called back with a wave of his hand.

“I am glad for you both,” said Frodo, fond and yet serious. “Still, it amazes me that you should bicker as much as you ever did!”

Legolas chuckled. “Of course! We have argued our way into friendship and now courtship. Whyever would we stop, when it has proved such a winning strategy?”

Thorin had a sudden flash of sympathy and fellow-feeling towards Aragorn. Where _was_ Aragorn?

Then he spotted the King, moving quietly amongst the people and speaking with them in his low voice. Thorin nodded in satisfaction. Yes, Aragorn would not have forgotten his time as a foot-soldier. He would see to his people before he saw to his merriment.

A peal of rumbling laughter came from the fig tree, and Thorin turned to see Gimli chatting animatedly with the musicians. Most appeared to be soldiers, though there was indeed the minstrel from the great ceremony upon the lawn. Several fiddles, a drum and a pipe had been found, and there was also an old squeeze-box that hawed and hee’d upon every press, as though a herd of miniaturised donkeys were concealed inside. 

As Thorin watched, Gimli accepted the minstrel’s fiddle with a deep bow and careful hands. He tested the tuning, his fingers unhesitating and sure upon the pegs. Then he tested the tension in the bow, and spoke for a moment longer to the musicians. There was a familiar light of challenge in his eyes.

“Look at Legolas,” Frerin whispered, and Thorin glanced back to see the Elf’s gaze locked upon Gimli, drinking him in with utter fascination.

“I should get Fíli,” Thorin said. “He taught Gimli to play…”

“You stay, I’ll get him. I’m a fiddle-player too, after all.” Frerin clapped Thorin on the back. “Don’t you go stealing _my_ job, now that you’ve put yourself out of business. I’m the smallest and the fastest, remember?”

Thorin gave his brother a sharp look, but there was no trace of resentment in Frerin’s eye or voice. “None faster,” he said, and surely this much happiness and pride for those he loved was uncontainable? Surely he must burst with it.

The stars took Frerin at once, even as Gimli brought the bow down upon the strings. It was not long before the other musicians caught the melody and the music soared out into the night. Thorin recognised the tune: an old jig of the Iron Hills, rolling and rollicking and full of joy and energy.

[[Gimli's Jig, composed and played by determamfidd](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/149741857273/gimlis-jig-from-chapter-42-of-sansukh-composed)]

“That’s the stuff!” Pippin said, sitting up straight. “That’s more like it! Did Gimli ask them to play that?”

“I think you’ll find he’s doing rather more than that,” said Gandalf, smiling.

“Come on, Pippin!” Merry said, stuffing what was left of his bread roll in his mouth and snatching his cousin’s hand. “Let’s show them how a Prince of Halflings dances!”

“Out of time, upon everyone else’s toes, and with an ale in his hand!” Sam declared, which was greeted by a wave of laughter.

Legolas had not taken his eyes away from Gimli. The Dwarf’s boot struck the wood of the tree-root in time with the beat, and the bow skittered upon the strings. His fingers seemed too large and thick to move so quickly, dancing over the fingerboard as though by magic even as the melody shifted.

  


Gimli's Jig, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/149745168400/and-that-makes-100-sansukh-illustrations-i-love)  


“I know that one!” Pippin shouted, mid-step. “Merry, here – chip the glasses and crack the plaaaaaaaates-”

“ _Gimli_!” Thorin gasped, appalled and amused all at once. He wondered how in Mahal’s name he was to explain this to Bilbo with a straight face.

Yet Frodo’s small muted smile had actually grown into a laugh as the old washing-up song continued, bouncing along merrily, the squeeze-box hawing away. From the grateful look on Sam’s face, Gimli’s audacious choice had not gone unappreciated.

“And it appears that you did not keep at least _one_ secret, Bilbo,” he murmured, even as Merry attempted to juggle a pair of goblets. “Not if all these Shire-children know the song, and of our part in it.”

“You didn’t turn up until later, I’ve still no clue as to how _you_ know of it,” came Bilbo’s voice from behind him. Thorin did not even attempt to hide his sudden smile.

“Bofur told me of it, later on the journey.”

“Oh, blasted Bofur, of course.” Bilbo sniffed. He thrust his thumbs into his bracers and made a rueful face at Pippin’s enthusiastic and graceless kicks. “And how do you suppose all these Men know it?”

“They don’t.” Thorin nodded to Gimli, who was modulating the tune to a fast circle-dance that had been popular in Erebor before Smaug. “But he does.”

“I didn’t know he could play,” Bilbo said, after a beat.

“Fíli taught him.”

It was as though his name had summoned him. “Oh! He’s kept his hand in,” said Fíli, stepping away from the stars with an approving nod of his head. “Though he keeps letting his thumb slip around the neck. Poor technique, that.”

“Doubt he’s had a lot of time to practice, this past year,” Frerin said at his side, lifting his eyebrows rather pointedly. “And it’s a borrowed instrument, too.”

“I _know_ that, Little Uncle, I’m just saying it’s a habit he’ll need to break, and the more practice he gets…” Fíli stopped short at the sight of Frodo and Sam, laughing and clapping along to the music. “Oh.”

“Nevermind?” said Frerin, rather slyly. “Come on, come and dance, nephew. You can critique his playing later.”

“But, Sam and Fro-”

“They’ll be fine without you for two minutes,” Thorin told Fíli as gently as he could. “I shall watch over them for you. Go, dance. You haven’t smiled in too long, Namadul.”

Fíli glanced between the musicians and at the small and boisterous crowd that ringed Pippin and Merry, and the small quiet party before him. He grimaced, but allowed Frerin to tug him away at last.

“He’s become too careworn, lately,” Thorin muttered, and Bilbo snorted.

“Thorin, honestly, you haven’t any room to criticise. At _all.”_

“Ah, but we do not speak of me, we speak of Fíli.” Thorin nodded to Frodo and Sam. “Every step, he took at their side. He has become a leader and an advisor in his own right, beyond the ties of blood and succession. Yet I worry.”

“I know you do.” Bilbo’s gaze dropped to the two Hobbits seated upon the blanket. Great black rings still stained the skin under their eyes, and hollows lay beneath unnaturally-sharp cheekbones. Frodo’s eyes seemed bluer than ever, violently so, as though deprivation and suffering had drained him to the bare essence of himself. Sam’s hand was wrapped around Frodo’s injured one. There were new lines of pain and hardship, carved deep and unforgiving, in the gardener’s round face. They made him look older, pulling down the corners of his mouth and creasing his brow.

Bilbo’s clever eyes took all this in within a matter of seconds, Thorin knew. But he made no comment upon their appearance. “They’re alive,” he said, quietly.

“That they are.” Thorin stepped closer to Bilbo. “They survived.”

“But so changed. Do you suppose we did anything at all, standing in the way like that?” Bilbo did not look away from Frodo. His gaze dropped to the four-fingered hand, wrapped in clean linen strips. His throat bobbed rapidly.

“Who can say?” Thorin chewed at his lip for a moment, thinking. Though he had felt flayed on the inside for days afterwards, he could not regret his futile, final act of utter rejection. “If nothing else, our defiance infuriated and distracted him. That in itself is a satisfying sort of end.”

“True enough.” Bilbo sighed, and then looked up at Thorin from the corner of his eye. “I suppose I must grow accustomed to your occasional wisdom, as well. Though no doubt it shall prove just as maddening as the rest of you.”

Thorin grinned. “Mahal will it so.”

“Occasional, I said, _very_ occasional, practically a rarity,” Bilbo sniffed. His own mouth was pinched at the corners, repressing his own grin. “I’m rather more in favour of the changes I see in you, my dear. That braid becomes you.”

Thorin’s hand shot up to trace the bumps and twines of the new bonding braid in his hair: the proudest declaration he had ever made without a single word. “Mmm, thank you, ghivashelê. Perhaps it might become you also?”

“Oh, you silly soft old thing. This is neither the appropriate time and place.” Bilbo’s twitching mouth finally broke into a broad smile. “They’re alive.”

“They’re alive.”

The night span on, and Gimli handed back the fiddle after a few turns, pleading a parched throat. A chorus of protests greeted this announcement, and so he held up a hand and said, “I shall be back, mark my words! But no Dwarf can play when he’s as dry as desert sands, so hand me a beer and the sooner I shall take my turn again!”

“You have admirers, I see,” Legolas said as Gimli flopped down upon their blanket again. He was warm with exertion, his cheeks reddened above his beard and his eyes sparkling.

“No need for your jealous looks, âzyungelê,” said Gimli, and he gave the Elf a quick firm kiss. “I need that drink! I’ve not played in years; I’d forgotten what hot work it can be!”

“It was well-done of you,” said Gandalf. “These people need the levity more than they need solemn ceremony. And well-played!”

“I remember you telling us that you played the fiddle,” Legolas said, and he poured out a flagon and handed it to Gimli. “I did not expect such skill!”

“Yes, and I seemed to recognise one of those tunes,” said Frodo, his eyebrows high. “I feel Bilbo would be pleased that a remembrance of his own adventure made it here, to the very end of it all.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “I’d have preferred something a little… _loftier.”_

“Aye, well, most Dwarves can play some sort of music, even if only the mining songs accompanied by the strike of a pick! Wait, when did I tell you that? Oh, that’s right – Éomer and Rohan, that stone-blasted party.” Gimli took a deep draught, and wiped his mouth with his forearm. “My thanks, my Elf. Do you play music? I do not recall you ever saying so.”

Legolas made a face. “Wood-elves are more inclined to singing than to any other music. My father wished for me to learn something of my Sindar heritage, and so I can play the harp, though not well. Assuredly not to the level of competence you have with the fiddle!”

“Harp!” Gimli’s mouth fell open, and then he guffawed loudly. “You don’t say! I had an illustrious cousin who played harp, you know.”

“Not…?”

“Aye, the very same!”

Legolas’ mouth pursed, his shoulders hunched as though he were fending off laughter. “I daresay he is pleased to know that I am centuries out of practice.”

“There’s an unexpected similarity,” said Fíli, giving Thorin a sidelong look. “The same taste in swords and instruments, Thorin!”

Thorin shrugged. “He’s not entirely without taste. For an Elf. He can appreciate good music, after all. Gimli’s fine playing pleased him.”

“Oh, you can all stop filling my pocket with fool’s gold now. I am hardly a virtuoso. Had I tried for the Guild of Musicians, they would have laughed in my face! No, I am pleased enough that my talents lie in other areas.” Gimli gave Legolas a knowing little smirk. “Do you not agree?”

Legolas was as cool and serene as the night air as he said, “Quite. You are to be congratulated: your fingers are equally nimble in all their endeavours.”

Gandalf coughed around his pipe-stem, and Sam turned a rather purplish shade. Then he stole a quick glance towards Frodo, before burying his nose in his mug.

“Brazen Elf!” Gimli shook his head.

“Shameless Dwarf,” Legolas mocked him in return, even as he wrapped a long arm around Gimli’s shoulders, his fingers playing at the piping upon his sleeve. “You are purposefully trying to make poor Sam embarrassed.”

“Begging your pardon, but I’m not,” Sam piped up, though his eyes did not lift from his tankard. “I mean, Mister Gimli might be making a bit o’ sport, but I’m not uncomfortable, nor embarrassed. I’m just. I’m simply not _used_ to it. It’s not unheard of in the Shire, but it’s not. Not. Uh, well, commonplace, or widely accepted. I’ve no quarrel, none at all! I’m true and fair glad for the pair of you, as I said. Hobbiton ways aren’t the only ones there are, nor the best ones neither.”

“Ah, but the old ways are the hardest to undo, that is certain,” said Legolas, and his eyes were soft and bright. “I should know.”

“Is that Pippin wearing _Éomer’s helmet_?” said Frodo suddenly, and he looked rather aghast.

“Tooks!” Gandalf said - cheerfully, with a decided air of ‘not my problem this time’.

Legolas turned his face up to the stars, and his arms tightened around Gimli. “I like this place,” he murmured. “Perhaps I should bring some few of my folk here. The trees are starved of light, but their voices ring sweet and brave and true.”

Gimli tipped an ear towards him, considering. “And it’s close enough to Rohan,” he said, slowly. “Two sevendays, at most, if travelling on horseback.”

“On _horseback_ ,” Legolas repeated in a teasing manner, and Gimli huffed.

“Arod doesn’t count, Arod is _Arod_. I don’t trust the rest of them long-legged beasties. I know they plot behind their long faces. Arod’s the only one of them that isn’t a conspirator.”

“Oh, meleth,” Legolas laughed softly.

“Would the river not make you uneasy in your heart?” said Gimli, and his great hand laid itself over Legolas’ slender one, squeezing it reassuringly. “I would not wish for those dratted birds to be forever whispering in your ears, stirring up the brine in your blood.”

“Too late; much, much too late for that, love.” Legolas did not turn from the stars, unblinking and pale in their glow. “It doesn’t matter where I am. I carry their call within me wherever I go, for my memory can never dim. But I will stay no matter how loud they grow. I do not yet wish to sing to unfamiliar stars.”

“Good,” said Gimli, settling back in his arms. “Good to hear.”

After a moment, Thorin became aware of Legolas’ voice, singing quietly into the red wealth of Gimli’s hair:

_“To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,_  
_The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying._  
_West, west away, the round sun is falling._  
_Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling._  
_The voices of my people that have gone before me?_  
_I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;_  
_For our days are ending and our years failing._  
_I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing._  
_Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,_  
_Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,_  
_In Eressëa, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,_  
_Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!”_

“This does not exactly reassure me, âzyungelê,” growled Gimli.

“Sweeter still are the voices here, my Gimli,” whispered Legolas, and his arms tightened about Gimli’s broad shoulders. “And I would not leave without you. For how should I fare upon the wide waters without a guiding star?”

* * *

 

“You knew, then.”

Kíli made a rude noise, deep in his throat. “Of course I know. Knew. That.”

Thráin sighed, and dumped Custard onto Kíli’s lap. The large orange-and-white cat gave a questioning meow, before discovering that the leather of Kíli’s coat was particularly nice to rub her cheek upon.

Kíli’s hands circled about her, almost by reflex, and he looked up at his grandfather and great-grandmother with confusion in his eyes. “It’s been eighty years,” he said, his voice rather tight.

“Aye, it has,” Thráin said, and sat down beside Kíli. Hrera was uncharacteristically quiet as she sat on his other side (though her fingers did begin to run through his perpetually scruffy hair). “Eighty years, and you never said a word. Most of us gave no more thought to it, because you seemed… well, content. Content enough. And you never brought it up, beyond those first years.”

Kíli’s eyes darted nervously from side to side, before he schooled them into submission by fixing them upon Custard’s bushy tail. “Well, it didn’t seem the time. Not with everything else – Thorin and Fee were so – well, you _saw,_ they were wounded. Fee was angry and swallowing it every day, and Thorin was exploding extremely slowly… and then Bifur was here, and Nori – and then there was the war, and Frerin needed us to take over from him when he couldn’t – and so…”

Hrera’s eyebrows were raised meaningfully at her son. Thráin nodded and waved a hand in response. “There’s a lot you do that nobody sees, isn’t there?” he said. “A lot you hide behind your carefree sunny smiles, my lad. Does Fíli know?”

Kíli’s gaze dropped once more. “Most of it. Not all.”

Hrera shifted around in her seat, both her hands rising to separate out the strands for a braid upon Kíli’s left temple. “Do you know who else in our family hides such things?” she said, her voice lacking its usual proud bite. “And no, it’s not your uncle, forever wearing his heart in his scabbard or in his eyes. Not your mother, either, our songbird who lost her voice for grief.”

“Not I, neither,” Thráin said, as Kíli gave him a dubious look. “Not likely! The one who took us to war for vengeance and set out alone to seek our lost glory? You’ve my recklessness, to be sure. But I’ve not held my heart so close and quiet in my life, not even as a child. That was a lesson I learned once I was long grown.”

Kíli blinked between them, even as Custard rubbed her head beneath his chin. “So, who?”

“You and I have something in common after all, great-grandson,” Hrera said, her hazel eyes moist and soft. “You and I can hide our breaking hearts, and never show a sign of it. My armour might be dresses and jewels, and yours might be jokes and smiles, but in the end it is all the same. Frerin has a touch of it, as does Dáin… but the rest are hopelessly transparent. I’d never have expected such circumspection of you. Your braids are, after all, a disgrace.”

  
  
Hrera and Kili, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/151355578404/kili-and-hrera-from-chapter-42-of-sansukh)  


“Amad,” said Thráin, sighing.

“Well, they are,” she muttered, and smoothed down Kíli’s tangles with a gentle hand.

“Look, I’m all right, I’m well enough,” said Kíli, rather dazedly. Hrera’s presence always made him feel pre-emptively guilty, as though anticipating a scolding. “And I think that was a compliment, so thank you. Possibly. What’s brought all this on?”

“Thranduil found the cairn,” Thráin said. And winced.

“And once he’d seen her, seen what she came to, he chose to send food to Erebor,” added Hrera. “I wouldn’t have thought it true, even though I beheld it with my own two eyes. He didn’t know what had happened to her – your Elf, I mean. But you did. Didn’t you?”

“Amad!” Thráin said, rather more sharply, as Kíli sucked in a short and trembling breath. “Let’s just sit together for a moment, shall we?”

And so they did. Hrera stroked Kíli’s mad, tangled hair, ordering it to her satisfaction with tender fingers. Kíli’s own hands buried deep into Custard’s cloud of orange fur, and the purr was louder than the roar of the fire.

Thráin’s hand landed upon Kíli’s shoulder, where it stayed. Hard and huge, stable and firm as the earth itself, and Kíli felt himself grow steadier under its weight.

“I knew,” he said eventually. His voice whispered and cracked. “Of course I did. I watched as she grew weak and worn like no Elf ever does, ever. Her hair grew thin, her eyes were lined, and for her sake I cursed myself and my birth and that she had ever met me. For my sake, I couldn’t – _can’t-_ regret that I had known her – I can’t regret that for a minute. She was starlight in the darkness, for such a short time. Yet it was so bright, and so… so pure.”

Kili closed his eyes tightly, and his shoulders squared as he inhaled. “And so. Yes, I knew, and I saw. She wouldn’t let herself fade. She was a warrior, my Tauriel. And she fought it, fought herself inside and out and wouldn’t let it win.”

“You knew where she’d gone,” said Thráin. It was not a question: there was no pushing for answers. Thráin simply waited for confirmation, and kept his hand where it was, anchoring his grandson to the quiet and the peace and the feel of hands in his hair, the fur and warmth against his chest.

“Aye, I knew.” Kíli licked his dry lips, and then closed his eyes. “She nearly did it, too. Died with a blade in her hand, died facing evil. She wouldn’t let it grow stronger than her, no matter how weak she became. _Never_. But that is all I have known, that and an endless futile longing. Because now she’s somewhere I cannot see.”

“There’s tales enough of Elves, and how they are bound to the world even after they die,” said Thráin. “She won’t be gone forever.”

“Long enough,” Kíli sighed. “But I’ll wait. I’d wait longer, if I had to. What did we have? Three, perhaps four days? How pathetic – how _inadequate!_ If I was someone else, I’d laugh at me. Wait, no… no I wouldn’t.” The look in his dark eyes was grim and bleak. “I’d weep, because it is all so unfair, just so terribly and horribly _unfair._ So no, I won’t accept it, it’s _not right._ I’ll wait until it is right. I’ll wait until the end of the world, if it means I have one more day at her side.”

“I’m sure the Maker can do better by you than that,” said Hrera. Her eyes were wet, the lashes clumping. Her back did not bend, and she made no move to dash at her eyes. “So, is this the drive behind all your persistence?”

Kíli’s smile was thready, a shadow of his normal impish grin. “Um, a little bit. I suppose. Well, if Mahal could be persuaded to bring Bilbo here, then why not others? Why not me?”

“But he didn’t, did he,” said Thráin. Again, there was no force behind the question.

“Nope,” Kíli shrugged one shoulder, and Custard let out a ‘ _mrrrilll!’_ of annoyance at the movement. “He can’t. He said so. Bilbo is a Hobbit, and must depart to wherever Hobbits go, to be with his kin as we are with ours. And Tauriel is an Elf, and... anyway. He saw through me, of course. No use trying to hide from _him._ Still, it was fun at the time. I think I turned a few of his mighty hairs white!”

“I’m sure you did,” said Thráin, his mouth quirking. “No doubt about it.”

“Unacceptable. I’m sure that _something_ can be done,” said Hrera, frowning. “It’s terribly untidy to have all these sundered lovers moping about the place.”

“Amad!” Thráin growled, and turned to Kíli, ignoring his mother entirely. “Your lady-love was a brave, brave lass, grandson,” he said. “A lady worth waiting eternity for. And we’ll all wait with you, until you’re together once more. Believe in that, at least.”

Kíli smiled faintly once more, and this time it was tinged with pride. “Wasn’t she something?”

“Dreadful organisation,” Hrera muttered.  “Simply shocking. They may be in charge of all that is and ever will be, but by my beard, I wouldn’t make them responsible for the seating at a banquet! _Tsk._ Intolerable and inconvenient in the extreme. I’ve a piece of my mind to give to these-”

“ _Amad!”_

* * *

 

Narvi did not even look up from her tools as Haban stormed into her workshop. “The girl again?” she said distractedly.

Haban flung herself onto a chair, her face stormy. “I told her!” she exclaimed. “But she’s still waxing poetic about death in battle and how much more _noble_ it is than any other sort of life. I bloody _died_ in battle, and I could tell her in great detail just how useless and stupid it is! What I wouldn’t give to have lived, just ten more years – just one! Ah, but no, she’ll idolise death and glory despite all she’s seen and done – it just breaks my mind, how can she not _see?_ ”

“You love and admire that woman, don’t deny it,” Narvi said, and fitted together the cogs that would make one wheel turn at a degree to the other. “You consider her a hero and want her to be at peace. Hmm, this wants tightening. Hand me that 1/8th size wrench, would you?”

Haban handed her the wrench without comment. “Faramir’s a nice boy, and a blasted noble _idiot_ ,” she said, and she seemed rather sulky about the whole thing. “He holds his tongue the whole time, and sends her soulful looks with his big sad eyes. If only he would _say_ something, if only she would! But they’re locked in these positions that they’ve chosen for themselves: him not to ask and her never to tell, and it’s so painful to watch I could scream. Worse still, it’s completely pointless! I can tell she likes him.”

“You wouldn’t care so very much if you didn’t think the world of them both,” said Narvi, and she flipped down one of her eyeglasses from her head-kit (a band of her own design, a sort of band circling her brow, covered in eyeglasses of differing strengths and coloured glasses for different sorts of work. There was even one with a distance-measure). This would take careful adjustment, and she would have to give it her full attention. The stuff had always obeyed Khel more readily than it had her.

“It is _so obvious_ that she doesn’t believe what she is saying anymore,” grumbled Haban. “She’s so used to spouting all this nihilistic nonsense, though. Her heart yearns to live, not to die with a blade in her hands. And she no longer turns to the East and the blasted plain. Now she looks to the North-west, where the river springs forth from the Mountains, where Faramir is.”

Surprising. Interesting. Narvi looked up at her friend, blinking through her lenses. “He’s no longer in the Houses of Healing?”

She’d taken her eye off it. Blast. Now she would have to recalibrate the tension of the spring and reset the cogs. The door would never close properly otherwise.

“No, he’s taken up the mantle of Steward, for as long as he must.” Haban’s mouth was pressed tightly in annoyance. Her Firebeard temper was never far from the surface, along with all her brusque, maternal worry. “He’s busy in the citadel most of the time, but he still makes a moment or two to see her.”

“He recovered well enough?”

“As well as can be expected. Neither fire nor grief are kind.” Haban scrubbed her eyes. “Oh, these foolish children! They will drive me to drink, I swear to Mahal!”

“Do you think her still under the influence of the Black Breath?” Narvi mumbled, her fingers busy re-setting the spring. It was fighting her. Perhaps she should have made the plating thinner.

Haban grunted. “No, I do not think she speaks from Sauron’s despair any longer. More the despair of long habit.”

“Well, she can hardly be blamed for that.” No, Narvi knew all about the despair of long habit.

“I think you need a drink too,” said Haban after a beat. Narvi huffed in annoyance. Haban was far, far too perceptive at times.

Two days later, Haban wandered in with a puzzled look upon her face. “What’s with you?” asked Narvi bluntly.

“She says she wishes for no man’s pity,” Haban burst out, and she made an inarticulate sound of frustration in her throat. “It’s not bloody pity, wherever was there pity mentioned, oh MAHAL help me, I will tear out my entire beard before these two cease this painful, polite and _utterly stupid_ dance!”

Narvi reached out and patted her shoulder, even as Haban closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “There, there,” she said absently.

  


Haban and Narvi, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/149745168400/and-that-makes-100-sansukh-illustrations-i-love)  


The third day, Haban rushed into Narvi’s workroom with an aleskin flung over her shoulder. “The hammer finally dropped!” she cried happily. “Narvi, come on, let’s drink to the continued existence of my poor beard!”

“You warned me they’d turn you to drink,” laughed Narvi, and she put down the tiny mallet she had been working with. “So, Eowyn has finally seen Faramir as he is? Or Faramir has finally spoken clearly and to the point?”

“Both, I sorely hope,” said Haban, taking a pull on the aleskin and passing it over. “He finally out and said it: _I love you,_ he said, and she heard him at last. Says she no longer finds joy only in battle-glory and songs of slaying. She wants to find things that are green and growing, and she looked upon Faramir as she said it.”

“You knew it,” Narvi sat down next to her friend, taking a long slug of the skin. “I should never place a wager against you.”

“Hah, that boy led me a merry dance with his pretty words, saying everything in his eyes and nothing at all with his tongue,” said Haban, shaking her head. “I’d still not stand against him in a bargain. He’s rather good at drawing forth the answers he likes. Well, we saw that with Sam and Frodo, didn’t we?”

“And they will wed?”

“Aye, I’ll wager they’ll be bound before the month is out.” Haban gave a content sigh. “Well. That’s finally sorted then, that’s a weight off my mind. How about you? What are you working on, anyway?”

Narvi glanced back at the miniature in pieces upon her bench. It glowed like the moon captured in a mesh of light. “Oh, just going over some old designs. It felt like the right time to work on them again, you know?”

* * *

 

_“Thoriiiiiiiiin!”_

It had been a whole _week_ since someone had come tearing down his hallway screaming for him to come quickly. He’d nearly become used to the peace and quiet, nearly grown comfortable. Thorin chuckled to himself. He should have known that it was too good to last.

“What is it, Ori?”

  


Ori has some Bad News, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/149745168400/and-that-makes-100-sansukh-illustrations-i-love)  


“You have to come _now!_ There’s been.” Ori choked upon his words, and bent over double, coughing for a moment. Thorin patted his back until he’d managed to get himself under control.

“Right. Now, say it slowly.”

Ori blinked at him with huge, owlish eyes. “Letters,” he croaked. “Arrived at Erebor.”

For a moment, Thorin couldn’t think what Ori could be referring to. Messages arrived at the Mountain constantly, after all. Then it clicked, and a freezing dread gripped his guts.

“Glóin,” he said in horror.

“Thranduil,” agreed Ori. “Um. In the same place. With letters. And lots and lots of weapons. So.” He paused, and scratched at the back of his neck.

“Spit it out,” Thorin said through gritted teeth.

“Right. Um. There’s a sort of, er. Duel in the Council Room. Thought you should get there?”

“Well done Ori, thank you. FRERIN! AMAD! DÁIN! ÓIN!” Thorin lifted his voice to a carrying roar, and raced as fast as his feet could carry him through the glittering corridors. He could hear Ori puffing along behind him. “BALIN, NORI, BIFUR - ALL OF YOU, TO ME AT ONCE! I NEED YOU!”

“What’s the bloody commotion? Is the world ending after all?” came Dáin’s voice, and both he and Óin poked their heads out of a nearby door. There was a piglet in Dáin’s arms, and cards slipping out of Óin’s hand.

“Glóin’s about to kill Thranduil!” Ori squeaked as they barrelled past. “Or Thranduil’s going to kill Glóin! One or the other!”

“The other, _definitely_ the other!” Óin snapped, shoving past Dáin. His face had gone chalk-pale as he fell in behind Thorin and Ori.

“Oh bugger me, I’m not missing this,” said Dáin, grinning. “Someone look after Bubbles here for me?”

  
  
Dain and Bubbles, by [Irondrool](http://irondrool.tumblr.com)  


Balin was the next to join them, and then Frís, then Dweris, Nori, Bombur and Víli. Then the rest descended in a tide of running boots. A fair company of Dwarves was mustered in a matter of moments. “Well-trained to respond in a crisis, aren’t we,” snickered Frerin.

Thorin rolled his eyes and pushed Frerin into his seat by the pool of Gimlîn-zâram.

“Let’s hope we’re not seeing Glóin running beside us any time soon, eh?” muttered Balin.

“Shut up and look at the water,” Óin growled. “My brother’s not about to kick the bucket, he’s about to kick pasty Elf arse!”

“You hope,” murmured Vili.

“Shut _up,_ and look at the _water!”_

“Tetchy, tetchy.”

Thorin determinedly ignored the bickering as best he could. The stars swirled and rose to seize him and mercifully finished the job.

“…GO OF ME!”

Glóin’s voice was the first Thorin heard – _well, of course it would be,_ he thought, shaking away the starlight. “What can you see, anyone?” he croaked. He felt a little out of practice: his eyes were not adjusting as quickly as they had in the last frantic days of the Ring Quest. “Anyone?”

“Uh, it looks like everyone’s pitching in to stop them from laying into one another,” said Fíli dubiously.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!” Glóin thundered. Blinking away the stinging-tears clinging to his lashes, Thorin was greeted by a scene of utter chaos.

Dís had an arm around Mizim, whose legs appeared to have gone out from under her in shock. She held the letter in one limp hand, and was reading it with wide eyes. Gimrís was checking her pupils and her heart.

“I didn’t see this coming,” Mizim said faintly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Rot and nonsense,” said Dís.

“No, Mum, you didn’t do a thing wrong,” Gimrís said, brisk and harsh. Her own lovely eyes were rather tight around the edges. “Gimli’s just a fatheaded fool with no sense of timing. As usual.”

“THAT – VILE – SNAKE’S – SON – HAS CORRUPTED MY BOY!” Glóin roared, struggling against the six strong Dwarves holding him back. Jeri, Orla, Dwalin, Dori, Bofur – and was that the _King? –_ were all restraining him with all their might. Glóin appeared to have the strength of at least four in his fury, and they were hard-pressed to keep him under control.

“You _dare_ speak of my Legolas that way,” said Thranduil in a voice as freezing as a bitter winter wind. “Your spawn has obviously engineered some hold over him. No doubt Legolas has too much honour to gainsay him, and this is the payment that is chosen. Foul and deceitful!”

“Oh no,” whimpered Bofur, even as Glóin’s fury redoubled. The old Dwarf shook aside most of those clinging to him, striding forward and thumping a fist against his chest.

“Say. That. _Again,”_ he snarled. His beard and hair were bristling and dishevelled, his eyes wild with rage. His hands clenched and unclenched themselves at his side.

“Five on Glóin,” whispered Thráin. Nori gave an imperceptible nod, and a few coins changed hands.

“It appears that I was not mistaken in my opinion of Dwarves, no matter what the Wizard would say. Radagast is a fool,” said Thranduil, staring down his nose at Glóin. Not a muscle moved upon him, not a hair.

It was then that Thorin saw Laerophen’s hand, gently settled upon his father’s forearm. The lightest of tethers, but it was holding back the wrath of the Elvenking.

“We cannot trust them,” Laindawar said, his voice clipped and hard. “I have steered you ill, Adar. My apologies.”

“No,” said Laerophen wretchedly – barely a breath, but he said it regardless. Thranduil threw off his hand, and straightened his robes with slow, careful movements that spoke of an even deeper anger than Glóin’s ferocity: cold and implacable.

“We will depart within the hour,” said Thranduil at last.

“You’ll be _dead_ within the hour, you bloodless, heartless wax statue!” Glóin nigh-screamed, and he ran to the walls and ripped down one of the ceremonial axes with a massive yank. “Come back and fight, you beardless coward! Or do you send your sons to work your will by bedding half Middle-Earth?”

“Dad!” Gimrís snapped, horrified.

“You have to _do_ something!” Ori cried, wringing his hands in worry.

“This will undo all the good will of the last week,” said Balin urgently. “Thorin, speak to them, get them to stop this!”

Thorin scraped a hand down his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “Me? You saw how _I_ reacted when I discovered their relationship!”

“Thorin, we could have not just peace, but _true friendship_ between us, think of that!” Dáin said, turning Thorin by the shoulder to look into his eyes. He had his serious expression: all trace of joking was gone. “Not just tolerance, not just trade – true, real friendship – this moment is crucial! We cannot let it pass this way!”

“If they leave, if these are the last words said,” Frís added, “then Gimli and Legolas remain a curiosity, a strange and never-repeated oddity. If we can build on what has begun…”

“…then they are only the first of many,” finished Kíli. There was a small, pained smile on his face.

Thorin stared at Glóin and Thranduil helplessly. The Elvenking had turned and was making his way along the high path towards the exit. Laindawar had his hand upon his sword as he escorted his father, but Laerophen’s head was bowed and he seemed defeated and sad.

Glóin was still shouting, and he had thrown his axe into a wall, sending up sparks. The Stonehelm was standing in front of him, gripping his shoulders and pressing him back as he barked orders, but Glóin was deaf to everything but his rage.

“Maybe I could punch him out,” mused Dori.

“It’s a thought,” Dwalin agreed.

“It’s not that he goes through life with his blade drawn,” Óin said in frustration. “He’s not an aggressive dog, always on the attack. He’s just a protective sort, you see. He’d fight a thunderstorm if it could protect his loved ones from hurt.”

“I know, I know. He’s not a fool,” Thorin sighed. “But I could have wished this to come at a better time.”

Óin grimaced. “D’you reckon there could ever be a better time for this?”

“Right. Of those gathered here, who hears you the best?” asked Thráin, matter-of-factly.

“Dwalin, sometimes the King,” said Thorin. “I will try, though I do not expect Dwalin to be sympathetic. He has never been fond of Elves.”

“Who has?” murmured Nori.

“Listen to me,” Thorin began, feeling rather foolish. It was one thing to speak to Gimli, who heard him. One thing to speak in the heat of the moment. But his words must be carefully weighed now, lest they miss their marks. “Gimli and Legolas do truly love each other. They will not be parted, no matter how you rail and seethe. The things you have said today, both of you! They are shameful, and small. And so shall you be, if you deny them: shameful, and small, so very small. For you could not see what they have is as strong as Dwarvish mithril, as eternal as the Elvish stars.”

“Very nice, uncle,” whispered Fíli. “Keep going!”

“This is awkward. Damn, I hope it works. I’d rather fight the bloody dragon again,” Thorin muttered, wiping his sweating forehead. He took a step closer to the panting Glóin. He was watching Thranduil leave with his eyes narrowed in utter loathing. “Cousin, you _know_ your son! You know he is wise and deep of heart, faithful to his bones, and honest! Would he ever consent to anything less than a true love, a true bond?

“Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Greenwood, you know your son! You know he is thoughtful, merry, clever and keen of eye, proud and perceptive, loyal as the day and the night!  Would he consent to a false marriage? Would he bargain with his heart and his life?”

To Thorin’s utter surprise, Thranduil stopped walking, though he did not turn around.

“They are Elf and Dwarf, and proud of it, proud to be so,” he said, and Ori nodded urgently and made ‘go on, go on!’ motions. Óin was biting his lips, his eyes proud. “You will force them to choose between their love and their people, and you will lose. They will lose. Everyone will lose.”

“Dad,” said Gimrís. “Dad, _please.”_

“Adar,” Laerophen said, and he stepped away from Thranduil with his chin high. “I will not go.”

Thranduil’s eyes bored into those of his second son. “You will.”

“No, I will not.” Laerophen swallowed hard, and backed away step by step until he stood beside Glóin. “I will stay.”

“He will kill you, did you not hear him?” Thranduil said coolly, yet his eyes were blazing. “He would not hesitate. You are Legolas’ _brother.”_

“Yes.” Laerophen turned, swift as bird wings, to kneel before Glóin. “And he would not harm me.”

“He’s a Dwarf!” sneered Laindawar. “Pe-channas!”

Laerophen ignored him, kneeling before Glóin like a supplicant, like a child. His hands were free of weapons, and he wore no armour. “Master Glóin, you know me. You know my second-in-command, Merilin, who stood in council with you. You know that I went beneath the earth to save your grandson, that I fought by the side of your King.”

Glóin glared at Laerophen with sullen dislike. “Aye, I know you.”

“But you do not know my brother,” said Laerophen earnestly. “I would tell you about him, if you would like.”

There was a brief, breathless silence.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” whispered Frerin.

“Yes. That’d be lovely, dear,” said a shaky voice, and Thorin spun on the spot. Mizim was standing, clutching at Dís’ arms. Her face was still drawn, but there was a firm finality in her eyes and the set of her mouth. “I’d be honoured to hear tales of your brother. And if I’m reading this aright, you’re to be family soon enough. So, we’d all best get comfortable around one another.”

“But – but, Jewel,” began Glóin.

“Hush your mouth, old bear, you’ve said quite enough for one day,” said Mizim without even glancing at him. “Get up, lad, and come with me. I think we could do with a cup of something hot after news like that, eh?”

“But-” Glóin said, looking lost and a little confused.

Óin nearly deflated on the spot. “Oh, thank _Mahal._ Gimli’s going to owe me for all the grey hairs he’s given me _twice over_.”

Thranduil appeared rooted to the spot, his face impassive but his cheeks slightly flushed. The Stonehelm made his way through the slowly unravelling tension to where he stood. “Well, I doubt we’ve heard the last of that,” he commented, scratching at his beard. “Come now, Majesty, you can unclench now. Glóin won’t give you any trouble beyond dark looks and muttered jabs. He’s all explosions and fire, to be sure, but they never last long.”

“Do you mean to say that he did not believe what he was saying?” Thranduil said stiffly.

“Oh, I’m sure he meant every word as he was saying it,” said the Stonehelm, grinning. “He often does.”

Thranduil’s brows drew together in the faintest of frowns as he parsed that. “Is he a simpleton?”

“Far from it. Glóin’s the cleverest treasurer we’ve ever been blessed with. He has practically rebuilt Erebor’s economy from scratch, you know. He’s just rather defensive of his family. As you’ve seen. His temper’s a thing to behold, isn’t it? Firebeards, you know how it goes.”

Thranduil’s eyes flickered down to the letter, and then back to the King. His jaw rippled. “So I hear.”

“So your son told you that much of him. That’s good. But you should know more.” The Stonehelm looked back at the milling people (Bofur and Dwalin were hauling Glóin out of the door – no doubt there would be plenty of ale and griping) and considered them. “Oh, of course. Gimrís! A word.”

“I’m seeing to my mother, if you don’t mind!”

“Prince Laerophen and Aunt Dís have her. I need you here,” said the Stonehelm, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “Do you get this sort of argument every time?” he asked Thranduil with a touch of impatience.

“Stop worrying, Bomfrís is _fine,_ I saw her this morning! Push off!”

“Is that any way to speak to your king?!” gasped Laindawar.

“You know very little about Dwarves, I see.” The Stonehelm nodded to Jeri, who nodded back. Then they disappeared into the milling crowd. Seconds later, Gimrís was standing before them with irritation dancing in her lovely eyes.

“I’m not sure if you heard, but my family’s had a spot of shocking news,” she growled. “D’you mind?”

“Your father is off getting drunk with your husband and Dwalin, your mother is off to have tea with Laerophen and Dís, your brother is causing diplomatic incidents from half a world away and your son is probably off causing the end of the universe as we know it,” said the King with cheerful bluntness. “Come on, you need to tell King Thranduil about your brother. Repay the favour, as it were.”

Gimrís gave the Stonehelm a suspicious look. “Sometimes you’re a lot like your dad, you know,” she grumbled. Then she turned to Thranduil and dropped the briefest and most insulting curtsey ever delivered to a monarch. “Charmed. Gimrís daughter of Mizim. At your service.”

“Graciously said,” murmured the Stonehelm. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”

“Go with Glóin,” Thorin told Óin and Nori. “The rest of you, spread out. Find what people are saying about this. We must continue to turn this tide, if we can.”

There were a few mumbled complaints. Then the party that had assembled with such astonishing swiftness broke apart with equal speed. Thorin glanced at Kíli, who squared his shoulders and nodded, before he scampered off after Laerophen and Mizim.

“Here we go,” said Dáin, as they turned back to Thranduil, Laindawar and Gimrís.

“What manner of Dwarf is your brother, and what spells and tricks can he devise,” said Thranduil at once. Gimrís’ chin tipped up, the gem in her nose glinting.

“My fool of an elder brother,” she said through gritted teeth, “is one hundred and forty years old soon. And in all those years I doubt he has ever had a guileful or deceitful thought in his stupid, uncombed head. Nor a thought of any other kind, it appears! I cannot _believe_ he put such news in a letter, what in Mahal’s name was he thinking?!”

“To prepare us, Legolas says,” Laindawar put in, and there was an uncomfortable moment as the three pretended that they were not all in total agreement as to the utter stupidity of this plan.

“So, your brother is not terribly clever,” Thranduil said.

“Oh, he’s bright enough,” huffed Gimrís. She seemed put-out at having to defend Gimli instead of showering him in her usual brand of fond, barbed insults. “For a trollbrained twit with more beard than brain, I suppose he’s rather smart. He’s good at plans and pretty words. And fighting, of course. He loves caves and dance and music.”

“ _Caves_ , Adar,” said Laindawar, darkly. Gimrís raised her eyebrows.

“Excuse me, but don’t you also live in caves?”

“Daro, Laindawar,” Thranduil said, waving his hand in a seemingly careless gesture. “Do not antagonise her.”

Gimris rolled her eyes. “Look, I’d like to get going, so what else do you want to know about Gimli? Also, I want to hear about this Legolas. Is he really the one who nicked Dad’s locket?”

Thranduil’s face went still and blank. “I… was unaware of this.”

“Huh.” Gimrís tilted her head. “Dad never shuts up about it.”

“But why Legolas?” Laindawar said impatiently, leaning forward over Gimrís. She refused to back away, and held her ground. “What does he want with my brother? Why?”

“Why?” Gimrís laughed then, loud and derisive. “I’m thinking that perhaps my brother fancies himself in love with yours, and so we must all suffer through this rigmarole until he is standing here to answer for himself.”

“Are you alike?”

“To look upon? A little,” Gimrís shrugged. “We both have the hair, and we both have dark brown eyes. He has a warrior’s build, and he got Dad’s nose. I’m an inch taller than him, for all that he’s wider and stronger…”

“No, not in appearance; in character,” interrupted Thranduil. Gimrís considered that.

“Again, a little. We’re different than we were. Once I would have said that Gimli has more patience than I. But then, Gimli never had a child like Gimizh, so what does _he_ know about patience, I ask you? Still, he’s a good Dwarf: faithful and determined and fiercely loving, a true son of Durin right down to his marrow. I never would have thought him capable of caring for an Elf, so I suspect he’s more changed than even I can understand. He’s quick to anger, like Dad, but he has Mum’s way of cutting through a problem too. He gets to the heart of matters quickly.”

“He would not seek revenge upon us for… for our part in the recent past,” Thranduil said, quiet and crisp, each word alighting as delicately as a dragonfly settling upon a leaf.

Gimrís wrinkled her nose, and then her eyes grew distant and misty. “When I was only thirty or so, Gimli discovered that I had destroyed his very favourite shirt. I had been painting, and I grabbed the nearest thing to hand to wipe up my spills. He loved that shirt. It was a hand-me-down from our cousin Fíli, and it suited Gimli’s complexion down to the bedrock.

“Gimli was livid when he discovered it, stuffed into the rag-bin where I’d tried to hide it. I waited for weeks for his revenge, always on tenterhooks.”

“And when it came, was it vicious?” Laindawar said, lip curling.

Gimrís’ dark eyes glinted. “He saw how I tiptoed and jumped at shadows. So he sat me down and gave me my doll to hold. He said that I had obviously punished myself sufficiently, what with all those weeks spent breathlessly waiting for the hammer to fall. Then he held me close and told me he loved me. I burst into angry tears, and so he let me play with his hair for a while, until I was calm again.”

Laindawar’s face was rather puzzled. “I was very small,” explained Gimrís. “And Gimli hates combing his hair. But I love it.”

“He does not comb his hair!” Thranduil looked vaguely horrified, and Thorin recalled that Elves were reported to find a head of fine hair most pleasing.

“I _know_!” Gimrís threw up her hands with the air of the tragically martyred. “I try, and I try! But does he listen? No, he stuffs it all under a helmet, brushes it until it is clean but no more, and hardly ever oils it! And he has _such_ a fine beard, but he barely keeps it in order! Two plaits, if that, and one barrel-braid for his hair! Ugh, I despair of his hair, I truly do, it’s so aggravating!”

All three nodded in sympathy. Then in unison they all sobered and straightened, their eyes darting at each other as though daring someone to comment.

“Um.” Gimrís shifted her weight between her feet. “So.”

Thranduil let his gaze rest upon her for a few moments more. “I would speak further with you,” he said.

“Does that mean you’re staying?”

Thranduil hesitated, and there was a look of obscure pain in his eyes. “For now. But I will give no blessing. I will not recognise this… union.”

Gimrís returned his gaze, and her own was stony. “Because Gimli is a Dwarf.”

“We all saw how your father welcomed an Elf,” drawled Laindawar.

Gimrís gave Laindawar a scornful sniff, before turning back to Thranduil. “All right, I suppose I’ll talk to you again. You can find me at the Healer’s rooms most of the time. Now, I’m off to see if my mother’s all right, _if_ you don’t mind.”

Without waiting for an answer, Gimrís spun on her heel and left, her river of blood-red hair bouncing behind her.

“A healer?” Laindawar watched her go. “A warrior and a healer. Interesting children these Dwarves have produced. And what was that about a locket?”

“I do not understand,” Thranduil said, and his eyes were still furious. Yet there was a thoughtfulness in them that Thorin did not quite recognise. It was still measured, still ancient and icy – but it was no longer distant. He wondered if it had begun in the forest, at the sight of a cairn and a lost friend. “But I _will_ understand, with time. We have work to do, ionneg. Let us begin. We must discover all we can about this _Gimli son of Glóin.”_

 

(TBC) 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Amad – Mother  
> Adad – father  
> Namadul – sister’s son  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-pool  
> âzyungelê – Love of all loves  
> ghivashelê – Treasure of all treasures.
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Meleth nîn – my love  
> Honeg nîn – my brother  
> Ionneg – my son  
> Naugrim – literally ‘Stunted ones’; i.e. Dwarves. (I am using this as a very insensitive and prejudiced word)  
> Pe-channas! – Idiot!  
> Daro - halt
> 
> Some dialogue taken from 'The Field of Cormallen' and 'The Steward and the King', from _Return of the King_. 
> 
> The doors of Moria were inlaid with ithildin, which 'mirrors only starlight and moonlight.' Narvi and Celebrimbor made them together. Since Celebrimbor's death at the hands of Sauron, Narvi has not touched ithildin.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Thank you so much for your patience, and for all your comments and kudos! I can't tell you how much it means. Honestly. Particularly when I'm in a bad way, your comments and kudos are such rays of light._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Thank you, always._


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **  
> **  
> [Here is the Majestic Masterpost of all Sansukh art, fanfic, podfic, music and MORE!!! It's staggering. It's utterly. Goddamned. INCREDIBLE.](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sans%C3%BBkh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost)  
>     
>  **I've added mouseover text for the Khuzdul for this chapter, as there is a LOT of it! *falls in a heap* URGH.**

 

The hours began to turn slower, and slower, then the days. Time had become so precious during the last weeks of the Ring War that every second had been filled to capacity, squeezed until it squeaked. Now, there was such a thing as leisure. There were moments purely for pleasure and interest.

Thorin played cards with Frerin and Vili, fought a practice-duel or two with Dáin, played his harp with Frís, and spent time in the smithy with Thráin. His steps became calmer, his posture more relaxed. The dark thoughts drifted through his mind on occasion, and yet they did not take root and grow as they once had. He made new dies for drawing wire, helped Bifur make a toy clockwork Oliphaunt, and gifted his mother with the completed oil-lamp. His eyes grew clearer, his hands rough and burn-scarred as they had once been. His sleep was dreamless. His days began to stretch out before him.

Once, Thorin would have thought them empty. Dead and dismal, hopeless and pointless. Now, they seemed full of potential, of possibilities. His workshop was covered in plans and sketches and pictures.

He watched his beard lengthen in the mirror by the day, and wondered what would happen next.

* * *

 

“Here.”

Bani looked up through bleary eyes from the charts beneath her hands. A cup was before her, sitting on a tray. Steam rose from its lip. She blinked, and a plate with breadrolls and eggs and a slice of cold venison came into focus beside the cup. “Eh?”

“You haven’t eaten in seven hours,” said the voice, amused and worried all at once. Bani took off her glasses with sluggish movements. Her back ached, reminding her that she had barely shifted position all that time. Her eyes stung and ached as she looked up into the face of Barís. “Do me a favour and get this into you?”

“How’s that a favour to you?” she mumbled, her hand fumbling the cup. A gulp later, and warmth flooded her insides, unwinding the tension and the slight nausea that had settled there without her notice. “Oh Mahal, that is good. Thank you, Songbird.”

Barís sat on the edge of her drafting-table, her brows drawn together. “What are you working on that’s so important? Things have calmed down considerably, after all.”

“Designing new storehouses,” Bani said, and yawned. “Everyone seems to have forgotten, but that damn woman is still out there. Scheming, probably.”

Barís’ frown deepened. “There’s no danger of starvation now. Perhaps she’ll leave us alone.”

“No, we’re not going to starve, and all chance of power has been put out of her reach. But who knows what she’ll do for revenge?” Bani yawned again. “She’s the type to want to be ‘proved’ right, even when she’s horribly, horribly wrong. I’m not one to repeat my mistakes. So, we have to design something safer than the old storerooms, and I don’t see anybody else doin’ it. On top of that, the Elves keep wanting things made in wood. I’ve had barely any time to scratch, considering. We need more carpenters in this bloody mountain, frankly: we’ve an embarrassment of stonemasons and bugger-all folk who know what to do with a tree, other than burn it.”

“You need sleep,” Barís said, smiling a little. “You’re ranting.”

“I know.” Bani smiled back at her. Their eyes met, and there was a little pause. “After I’ve eaten. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Barís put the tray down upon the table, and her fingers lingered upon the back of Bani’s hand. “I wanted to,” she said.  Her beautiful voice was hopeful and low. “It’s… it’s an idea I’m trying out.”

Bani laughed, brief and rough in her scratchy throat, remembering the rushed conversation about ideas and success before dousing the fire. “And do you think this one’ll work?”

Barís’ eyes were warm and very, very soft. “I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

The morning air was still chill with the last lingering traces of the night. The early hawkers were beginning to set up in the market squares. Much of the rubble had been cleared, but there were still scars everywhere one looked: shattered buildings and missing walls, blade-marks upon wood and stone.

Alone, Gimli marched through the city with purpose in his stride. Many of the market-folk looked up and watched him pass, and he nodded courteously to their greetings. It appeared that he was still something of a curiosity to the folk of Minas Tirith. Yet their gossip was good-natured and did not seem to bother him any longer. He evidently had other things on his mind.

“…need it to rhyme with fast,” he muttered to himself, and shook his beard in annoyance.

Pushing open the smithy-door, he called out to the owner, a Man called Iorlas, the uncle of Pippin’s young friend Bergil. “T’is Gimli, as arranged!”

“You begin the day early, Master Dwarf!” came the shout in reply. “I’ll be down later, once I’m dry and dressed and fed. Would you care for some tea? I’ve the kettle brewing.”

“None for me, thank you, but the kindness is appreciated!” Gimli yawned a bit and scratched at his neck, mumbling absently as he thought. “Past, cast, last - night gathers fast? Hmm. Night gathers fast – aye, possibly. Possibly.”

“Something on your mind?” Thorin asked, and Gimli nearly shouted in surprise, leaping about and clutching at his own chest in his shock.

“You utter bastard,” he gasped, and Thorin threw back his head and laughed. He had never had that effect before, and it was far more gratifying than he’d imagined.

“I’ll knock next time, shall I?”

Gimli rumbled in irritation, scowling at thin air. “You’re a right sod, Thorin Oakenshield. All right, now that you’ve taken at least a decade off my life, what’s the matter?”

Thorin sat down, and then adjusted his seat. The chairs here were far too tall: impossible, even for a ghost. “Why should something be the matter?”

“Isn’t there always a new problem?” Gimli said, and he rolled up his sleeves and took up the bellows for the forge. He began to pump, slow strong pulls that brought the dying embers back from their nightly slumber.

“Pessimist! This is most unlike you, Gimli.” Thorin frowned a little. “Well, I suppose there is one concern. Your father has received your letter.”

Gimli’s rhythm only faltered the smallest amount, and his eyes flattened in determination. Yet his mouth did not tighten, and nor did he flinch. “Already? That was a swift raven, then.”

“Thranduil has also received his.”

“Hmm. I expect they are sending missives of accusation back and forth between the Mountain and the Wood?”

“Not… precisely,” Thorin sighed. “Thranduil is wintering at Erebor. He has brought food enough to save them from starvation. The war has softened him towards us, it seems. Yet upon this news I half-expected him to withdraw his aid. Still, despite his shock and anger, he stays, though they nearly came to blows…”

“Oh Mahal’s teeth,” Gimli said, his eyes very wide. His voice was weak. “Oh mahumb.”

“The timing was not the best, no,” Thorin agreed. “That, or you have inherited a touch or two of my poor luck.”

“Dad’s all right, isn’t he?” Gimli’s hands gripped the bellows-handle tightly, as though around the haft of an axe. “He’s not as young as he was, and Thranduil might have… He suffered no injury?”

“Neither struck the other, thank Durin.” Gimli’s shoulders sagged in relief. “They bristle and scowl and make comments under their breath. The air is as frosty as the Grinding Ice itself, but thank Mahal that no blood has been shed. They both believe themselves to be viciously betrayed, however, and quite emphatically hate and despise the other.”

“Well, that’s rubbish,” Gimli said, sounding much more like himself. “Dad didn’t do anything rash in his temper, did he?”

“Your sister and mother had sense enough to talk your father down, as did Legolas’ brother Laerophen.”

“Legolas’ brother?” Gimli perked up. “You know him?”

“I’ve watched him, aye.” Thorin cleared his throat, feeling unaccountably annoyed, all of a sudden. “He is… not the worst Elf I’ve met.”

Gimli snorted. “Don’t hurt yourself. What do you make of him?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to ask Legolas?”

“Legolas will answer like an Elf who has known his brother for years beyond words. I would have the answer of a Dwarf, who knows and cares for us both. I would hear my guide’s opinion, if I could.”

“Gimli, you have been my guide in more ways than you can ever understand,” he began, but he was interrupted by Gimli’s quiet snort.

“Thorin, my kinsman and my king. You’ve led me through every challenge and peril on this quest. You’ve given me news and hope and advice, even when I was too foolish to listen to you. If you’re about to disavow your place in my life and my heart, then you can shut it right there.” Gimli’s voice was warm and gruff with affection, and it struck Thorin then: Gimli loved him in return.

How odd; how very unexpected! Thorin had thought for so long that it was Gimli who gave _him_ direction and hope. He had simply assumed… but perhaps it worked both ways. Perhaps he had been more than a bodiless voice upon the wind; perhaps Gimli was as grateful for Thorin as Thorin was for Gimli.

“Then I will count myself fortunate,” Thorin said, softly.

Gimli grinned. “I the pessimist and you the optimist. There’s a change of tune!”

“So what are you doing here?” Thorin looked about the small room, nowhere near as lavishly appointed or spacious as a Dwarven forge.

“Taking your advice.” Gimli pressed the bellows down for a final time, before wiping off his forehead. “Preparations for the coronation are proceeding apace, and both Legolas and I are not of any use to them. So we have made ourselves busy. I have been with the crews, clearing the rubble from the city. Legolas has been working hard with the new white sapling in the upper courtyard – this gardening business is smelly and incomprehensible work, to me – but then, he says much the same of mine. Still, so long as he is mucking about in manure and the like, I’ll treasure my ignorance as long as I have it! Now I have a task of my own, which I would keep a secret, if I can.” He blotted the sweat upon his neck, before dipping a hand into his tunic and drawing forth the little flattened gold disc.

“Ah. You’re making the marriage-bead,” Thorin realised. “Good idea.”

“You’re only saying that because it was your idea,” Gimli said, laughing.

“Naturally!” Thorin chuckled, and leaned back. “So, how do you plan to shape it?”

Gimli suddenly looked rather sheepish. It was odd, to Thorin, to suddenly see this Dwarf, after all he had endured and braved, fidgeting and shuffling like a lad of forty. “Um. Well, I’ve not had much occasion to work in gold…”

“You – you can’t work in gold,” Thorin said, flatly.

“I’m no’ a smith!” Gimli threw up his hands. “I’ve been a miner an’ a warrior, I can write and sew, stone-call and spelunk, dance a jig, brew beer, cook and sing and turn my hand to my fiddle well enough. But I’ve always been a disaster in a smithy! I’ll do my best, but I know it will not be all that Legolas deserves. How can I make anything to fit his beauty? But I must try. I’ve found this place and Iorlas is kind enough to let me spoil good metals in it. Yet I fear I’m about to ruin the reputation of all our people, fumbling about the way I am.”

Thorin threw back his shoulders and pushed himself out of the too-high chair. “Gimli, I was never lucky enough to work in gold too often in my lifetime, but I was and am _a damned good smith_. I can teach you.”

Gimli looked very dubious. “Are you sure about that? I mean, I can’t even see you demonstrate.”

“I can tell you what to do. You’ve nimble hands and a quick mind: I can teach you,” Thorin repeated, before adding, “for instance, the fire’s too hot. That blaze would melt steel, after all your efforts! And you need a ceramic cup. And tongs. Have you the fire-touch?”

“Aye, for what use I’ve made of it,” Gimli said, bewildered, but there was a dawning hope in his face. “But, Melhekhel \- as you say, the bead is gold. Will gold bring you any pain? For I won’t accept a word if what I do here will hurt you.”

Thorin blinked, surprised by the question. It honestly hadn’t even occurred to him.

“It does not trouble me,” he said eventually. “If I must leave, I will. But I feel no anger, no pull or guilt.”

Gimli’s face cleared. He appeared both relieved and pleased. “That’s good to hear.”

“I suppose it was a long time ago,” said Thorin haltingly, as though testing whether each word could bear his weight.

Gimli beamed. “It was indeed.”

“Right.” Thorin shook himself. Enough of this indecision and insecurity. The world was breathing anew. “Then let the fire bank down to coals again, while you gather what you need. Do you have water on hand?”

“Water? Oh, for quenching.” Gimli’s face was rueful. “I’m even more lost than I thought.”

“In this, I can most certainly be your guide,” Thorin told him. “Do you have lesser metals, to practice with? Any designs?”

“I’ve some ideas for the design,” Gimli sighed, and he touched the side of his jerkin as though patting it. “I’ve no clue whether they’ll work. I’m trying to combine Elven and Dwarven styles, and I’ve… well, it’s debatable whether or not I’ve succeeded. I have a dab hand for drafting mine-workings and blueprints, but jewellery was Mum’s passion. Gimrís has the fine eye for detail, not me! Damn it all, I don’t even like complicated braids!”

“Nonsense. You play your fiddle with ease, and you have mastered the finest and most intricate forms of war that have ever been invented, and a few that haven’t,” Thorin said briskly. “This is but a different type of detail.”

“You say that now,” Gimli said, a trifle gloomily. “You’ve never seen me. I swing a hammer like it’s an axe. I’ve split metal before.”

“Show me the designs,” Thorin commanded him, ignoring Gimli’s mood. “I can tell you whether they’ll work or not.”

“But–”

“Gimli,” Thorin said, and abruptly he knew where Gimli’s sudden pessimism might hail from, “my star, your father will not disown you, no matter how angry and confused he is. Let us make your marriage-bead, so that he can see how much you love your Elf. When he sees it and hears its tale, he can hold forth no objections on that front.”

Gimli’s eyes were wide, and he swallowed. He twisted his beard in one hand, a nervous action, before blowing out a gusty breath that seemed to come all the way up from his belly. “Right. I know, I know… I just. Ach, there’s nothing to say about it, is there? Let’s have a look then.”

He tugged a few scraps of parchment from his jerkin, smoothing them out upon the anvil. Thorin peered over them, asking Gimli to describe a few details that he could not make out.

“Most of these would work,” he eventually said. “Gimli, I will not hear you disparage your eye again: you have obviously picked up something of your mother’s skills. Gold is too soft to be beaten so thinly as the third design and yet hold its shape, but the rest are feasible indeed. And many are beautiful.”

Gimli harrumphed a little into his beard, shifting between his feet, pleased and a little embarrassed by the praise. “I thank you. You do not dislike the Elven elements?”

“I think them most suitable.” Thorin glanced up, and chuckled at Gimli’s face. “Lad, I carried an Elven sword, remember? I might have held Middle-Earth’s fiercest grudge in life, but that never stopped me from appreciating both skill and beauty where I found it.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“You will need sculpting tools for this one here, with the leaves twining around the diamond-patterns,” Thorin continued. “We have no stamps nor moulds, and so casting is out of the question. But sculpting I believe you could master.”

Gimli swallowed again. “Your faith in me is humbling, Lord.”

“If you can use my name when you are irritated with me, surely you can use it when you are not?” Thorin prompted him gently. “It’s not such a difficult one to say.”

Gimli wrinkled up his nose, but shrugged nevertheless and said, “fine. All right then Thorin.”

“Then we will begin. First you will need some gold of lesser quality, for your apprentice-efforts. Gold wire, as we will also attempt some wire-weaving patterns, to see if it suits you. Small rasps and files, as narrow as possible. If you can find any that are pointed, so much the better,” Thorin began, ticking off his fingers as rattled off the things Gimli would need to make his marriage-beads.

“Wait, wait, I’ll need to write this down, I’m no Elf to remember all this in one blow!” Gimli exclaimed, scrambling for pen and flipping over the rejected design. “Files… rasps… ceramic bowl… Iorlas has tongs, but do you suppose they will be too large? And you mentioned gold wire …”

Eventually Gimli had it all written down to Thorin’s satisfaction, and he sat back. “Ah, I feel as though I am stepping foot onto a new quest entirely!” he muttered, rubbing his hands upon his thighs. “I hope I prove equal to this one. Thorin, check my list, would you?”

Thorin peered over Gimli’s shoulder at his (surprisingly graceful) handwriting, letting his eyes skim down the list. “Aye, looks to be correct.” Then a snatch of words down the bottom of the page caught his eye. “And what’s this? Some verses? _For you are my guiding star / I will never fear tomorrow…_ ”

Gimli yelped and snatched up the paper as fast as lightning, tucking it against his chest protectively. “That’s not done yet!”

“Gimli, are you writing Legolas a _poem?”_ Thorin said, rather taken-aback. Though he was fully aware of Gimli’s rather lyrical, eloquent soul, it did not seem entirely like him to write love-poetry.

“A song,” Gimli said, wretchedly, still clutching the paper to his breast. “I wanted to do something for his traditions as well, y’ken? He’s to wear my braids and beads, in the way of our people, so I wished to make something that is Elvish at its soul. He said that Wood-elves are more inclined to singing than to any other music, and t’is true enough that songs come easily to him.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Thorin said, and resolutely did _not_ mention the hundreds upon hundreds of flower-embossed gifts that cluttered his apartments: garden tools and mirrors and cooking-pots and even a low pot-bellied stove – all conveniently Hobbit-sized. “I recall that you wrote songs for working in the mines, in your youth. How goes it?”

“Not so easily,” Gimli sighed. “A work-song is one thing: all you need is a good strong rhythm to stamp to, an’ a chorus that’s fun to shout. I feel that our story is much… much larger than the two of us.”

“Have you a tune?”

Gimli hummed a phrase, smooth and curling like the loops of Elvish music, steady and rhythmic as the best Dwarvish songs. It tugged at Thorin’s thoughts insistently. He pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, against the new ache there.

“Well, we’ll pass ideas back and forth on it as you craft, eh?” Thorin pushed aside the memories of Bilbo that were rising thick and fast. Gimli’s songcrafting was obviously more skillful than his smithwork, if just a snatch of his tune could touch him so deeply.

“I cannae believe I’m about to be an apprentice again,” Gimli groaned. “I’m nigh one hundred and forty! I’ve my journeymanship in mining and stone-calling, my mastery in weaponscraft!”

“Never too old to begin, my lad,” Thorin told him, and ignored the grumbling complaint that followed. “And what you learn here will help with setting that golden elf-hair you treasure so. Come on, the day’s a-wasting! Neither that bead nor that song shall shape themselves!”

 

* * *

 

“His hair’s… brushed. What do we do now?” said Bomfrís, swallowing hard.

“Now we close the casket,” said Barís, and she squeezed her sister’s hand. “Do you feel all right?”

Bomfrís touched her abdomen with awkward fingers, and screwed up her face. “Aye, not so queasy any more. Just getting sort of… annoyingly there. I keep forgetting and bumping into things with it.”

“Don’t be a hero about it,” Gimrís said. “If you’ve got to leave, just leave.”

“Let me know, little raven,” said Alrís. Barur was holding his mother in his great thick arms, her face buried in his chest. Next to them stood Bofur. They had their backs turned resolutely away.

“I had to leave him then. I’m not leaving him now,” Bomfrís muttered, and she steeled her jaw. “All right, let’s close it.”

Barís squeezed Bomfrís’ hand once again. Then she turned to Gimrís, and together the two Dwarrowdams lifted the carven lid, and laid it down upon the remains of Bombur.

The echoes of the stone sealing the coffin reverberated oddly through the tombs. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

“It’s done, Mum,” said Barur softly. “He’s at rest now.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Bomfrís said. “The ravens saw that he was left alone, and the winter snows, at least…”

Bofur closed his eyes tightly, his lips white. Alrís made a sound of distress, and buried her face deeper into Barur’s embrace. Barís hissed at her sister to _be quiet!_ Bomfrís stopped, her mouth open and her eyes full of chagrin.

“He’s wearing his best jewellery,” said Barís. “He’s got his staff by his side. His hair’s neat, and his beard is done in the long braid, the way he liked it.”

“Is he…” Bofur began, but he ducked his chin and couldn’t finish.

“He’s got his jacket on,” said Gimrís. “How’s your head?”

He shook it once. “Hurts.”

“Then come on,” she said, and crossed to him and took his arm. “I’ll sort you out, y’ daft bugger. They’ll be wanting to lay others down here too: We can come back later.”

“I heard they’re planning to move old Dáin out East,” Bofur said, and he sighed. “All my friends are leaving.”

“Come on, Mum,” said Bomfrís, taking her mother’s arm. “We can come down again tonight with the others, now that he’s beneath the stone.”

Alrís nodded. Barur and Bomfrís flanked her as they slowly left the place of the tombs.

Barís sighed, and turned back to the stone coffin. The angular symbol that he had worn all his life was etched into it, and his sky-name was carved into the foot. “Goodbye, Papa,” she whispered.

Picking up her skirts, she made to follow her family and best friend from the room.

In the darkness behind her, hidden between the great slabs of new coffins, something shifted.

 

* * *

 

BLAM!

“Ah, perhaps a somewhat less powerful swing is needed,” Thorin said, wincing.

Gimli looked down at the flattened circle that was his first effort, and shrugged. “Well, that’s why we bought all the practice metal.”

“This may take longer than I thought,” Thorin muttered to himself.

 

* * *

“No, you ought to keep it in the song,” Thorin told Gimli four days later, as he carefully tapped away at the little rectangle of gold he had created from his old bead. “It fits there.”

“But doesn’t it feel sort of… forced?” Gimli said, and he straightened and wiped off his brow. “This is damned fiddly. My every muscle feels like it is tensed, and it’s only a tiny scrap!”

“You’re only using a C-block so far,” Thorin said archly. “You don’t know fiddly. And the lyric is perfect. Leave it in.”

“ _Where you go there will I follow / for you are my guiding star,”_ Gimli hummed the phrase under his breath, and made a face. “I don’t know. I think it’s a wee bit overblown for my taste. Particularly the ‘star’ reference.”

Thorin resolved not to take romantic advice from Gimli. Ever. “How many times have you vowed to follow him, Gimli?”

Gimli squirmed. “A few.”

Thorin smiled.

 

* * *

 

“What do you mean you’re not sure of the size of his finger?” Thorin barked, the next day.

Gimli turned bright red.

Oh Mahal. “On second thoughts, don’t answer that.” Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, I was a wee bit preoccupied at the time!”

“I have no wish to know any more, thank you kindly.” Thorin pulled himself together. “Right. You’re going to have to take a measurement at some stage.”

“He doesnae sleep with his eyes closed,” Gimli reminded him.

“Then use your own as a comparison. You hold his hand often enough,” Thorin said. Refocusing upon the little circlet of gold that Gimli had so carefully shaped from his old bead, he said grudgingly, “well, you can file the edges, even if you can’t size it, nor solder it together.”

“More filing!” Gimli moaned. “Can’t I walk the Paths of the Dead again? My elbow’s about to fall off!”

“That’s smithing for you. Stop whining, Inùdoy, and get to it.”

 

* * *

 

“ _There’s a light on the horizon…”_

Two days later and the ring was taking shape. Gimli sang quietly to himself as he tapped carefully with the small felted hammer. “ _There’s a ship upon the sea…. Now the world is so much wider… for you wander it with –_ Bugger!”

“That doesn’t rhyme,” Thorin said mildly. “What now?”

“I just remembered! Coronation in a week, and I’ve not a damn stitch to wear!” Pushing a stained hand through his red hair, Gimli looked down at the borrowed and too-long tunic, black and silver like so much of the clothing in Minas Tirith. “I can’t be wearing Men’s clothes, what would Gimrís say when she heard?”

“Hmm.” Thorin tapped his lip. “Did you not tell me once that Dori taught you to sew?”

“Aye, but I’m no Dori,” Gimli said, frustrated. “I can mend my own gear well enough. New work will require some thought and time.”

“You’ve another project, then, haven’t you?” Thorin leaned back. “And you have a bad habit of downplaying your skills, my star. You will do a fine job of it.”

“I will have more crafts than I have hairs on my head, the way this is going,” Gimli blew out gustily. “I’ve not even begun to think upon the setting for my Lady’s hair. All right, once we are done here for the morning, I will check the marketplaces. I am sure I saw a bolt of blue cloth. Perhaps Ioreth of the Houses of Healing will lend me her shears...”

“You’ll wear our colours?” Thorin was pleased and surprised – though, when he paused to think upon it, perhaps he shouldn’t be. He had long associated Gimli with the rust-reds of the Firebeards far more than the steel blues of the Longbeards. Yet Gimli was most certainly both.

“Aye, Dad’d have my beard otherwise!” Gimli carefully transferred the ring to the long pointed mandrel and laid down the felted hammer. “I need a break anyway.”

“You’ve improved out of sight,  Inùdoy,” Thorin encouraged him. “It will keep. A new project will rest your mind from this one.”

Gimli laughed. “Were Legolas here, he would call that the most Dwarvish notion he has ever heard! He grows suspicious, wondering where I am all morning. He has asked about the scents of fire and metal on me.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Oh, that there was a surprise for him in store.” Gimli’s eyes shone. “He’s fit to burst: all that Elvish curiosity! But he has not pushed me for more, which is a blessing. I do not have the heart to deny him anything he asks for, so it is just as well!”

“What does he do to stave off his curiosity as you spend your mornings here?”

“Oh, he is up to the elbows in dirt, singing over the White Tree,” Gimli smiled. “When he is not there, he is flitting all about the city, coaxing the wild things to grow and singing to the spring birds’ returning. I have attempted to help, but I fear I am more a hindrance. What do I know of growing things? I went back to our lodgings that day covered in mud with his admonitions ringing in my ears. Well, it is hardly my fault that I cannot tell the difference between a flower and a weed, is it?”

“Perhaps yet another skill to master?”

“No, _thank_ you.” Gimli sniffed. “Sam and Legolas are welcome to it!”

 

* * *

 

All the Fellowship, save Aragorn, had been quartered together in a fair house upon the sixth level. It had not entirely escaped the destruction that was rife all over the city, but it had intact walls and a roof, and its windows faced the rising of the sun.

Upon a crisp Spring morning, a silvery trumpet sounded from the valley below Minas Tirith.

“What in the world is that now?” Pippin said, nearly spilling his breakfast tea. Merry was already leaping from his chair and scrambling for his sword.

Gimli looked up from his plate, his eyebrows high. “Sounds familiar.”

“Peace, Merry,” said Legolas, and there was the light of recognition in his face. “I know that call. We have visitors for the coronation.”

“Who’s come all this way, d’you suppose?” wondered Sam, and he dished more sausage and eggs onto Frodo’s plate. Frodo appeared rather intimidated by the towering stack of food before him. Fíli and Thorin shared a look, and behind them, Kíli sniggered.

“Same folk as came last time, no doubt.” Gimli pushed himself away from the table, and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Well, we’d best go make ourselves presentable, I suppose…”

The sun was fully high in the sky when Faramir met Aragorn before the Tower of Ecthelion in the Fountain Court before the gathered people of Gondor. He seemed mostly healed, and there was a startled joy in his eyes that was barely hidden. He knelt without hesitation as Aragorn approached him. Holding aloft a white rod of office, he said, “the Last Steward begs leave to surrender his office.”

Aragorn scrutinised the young man for a moment, and then closed his hand around the rod. Yet he did not take it. “That office is not ended,” he said. “It is yours, and will be yours and that of your heirs as long as my line shall last. Do now your duty, Steward of the White City!”

Faramir’s mouth parted, and he gazed up at Aragorn with amazement. Then he scrambled to his feet and called, “Behold! Free folk of Gondor, one has come claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?”

As the roar shook the foundations of Mindolluin itself, Kíli rolled his eyes. “Dumb question.”

“He forgot one,” Fíli added. “Thorongil.”

“Aragorn has entirely too many names,” muttered Kíli.

“He looks better now, doesn’t he,” said Frerin, nodding at Faramir. “He looks… younger. Less haunted by his losses.”

Thorin rested a hand upon his brother’s neck for a moment. “Aye.”

Frerin pursed his lips, considering. “Terribly handsome too. I mean, unfairly so.”

Thorin could feel his eyebrows rising, and carefully schooled his expression.

As the shout died down, Frodo bore the crown to Gandalf, who set it, glowing and sparkling, upon Aragorn’s head.

“Now come the days of the King,” Gandalf announced, before he lowered his voice and spoke directly to Aragorn as a friend. There was a touch of Gandalf the Grey in his eyes, full of warm pride. “May they be blessed.”

The King took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, before he stood and allowed the gathered populace to view him. As the cheers rang out again, Frerin murmured, “he kept his promise to Boromir.”

Thorin’s heart ached momentarily. He wished Boromir had seen this, his beloved city saved at last and glowing in the light of freedom and new tomorrows. “He did.”

“Gimli looks well,” Fíli added critically. “He’s actually brushed his hair.”

“Wonder where he got the Durin-Blue tunic,” Kíli said.

“He made it,” Thorin answered absently. “The cloth is man-make. Said he needed a respite from metals and smoke and ridiculously tiny hammers, and so he took up his needle again between-times.”

“Clever,” said Frerin, before he peered up at Thorin. “And is that what you’ve been helping him with when you sneak away every morning?”

“It is a surprise,” Thorin said loftily, “and it is Gimli’s to give. I won’t spoil it.”

“I hate secrets,” grumbled Kíli.

“That’s funny, because you’ve been keeping one,” Frerin immediately retorted. Kíli wrinkled his nose at him.

“I hate secrets _I’m not a part of,_ ” he amended.

“And here’s another,” Fíli said, forestalling the bickering. “That must have been the hail from this morning…”

“I _knew_ I recognised it!” exclaimed Frerin, even as the tall willowy figures of the Elves drew near, their banner held high before them. Elrond was there, and Galadriel, Celeborn and a towering Elf with sun-yellow hair. “It was an Elf-horn!”

Then the banner moved to one side, and its bearer was revealed to be Arwen. Her dark hair was caught in a mesh of sparkling silver chains, and the pain and darkness was gone from her eyes.

“Look at Aragorn’s face,” whispered Kíli, and if there was a small note of envy in his voice, Thorin could not blame him.

Thorin found it more instructional to look at Elrond. The Lord of Rivendell appeared torn between total joy and terrible sorrow, and his smile trembled as his daughter fell into the arms of the man she loved.

“I see your expression, Thorin Oakenshield, and your pity does you credit,” Gandalf murmured to him, watching the King touch Arwen’s face with tender fingers. “If I told the tale of all that Lord Elrond has lost, then the very air would weep. He is unused to joy without sorrow. But he will reach for joy nevertheless.”

“I did not know,” Thorin admitted. It seemed very long ago that he had stood in the dappled air of Rivendell, quietly seething in old resentments as Elrond directed the Council.

“No,” Gandalf said, his eyes kind. “But now you wonder.”

“Oh look!” Frerin said, and he gripped Fíli’s arm. “Look, there she is!”

Thorin turned to see Éowyn, her face free of shadows, standing proud at Faramir’s side. He quickly glanced down at his brother, but Frerin’s face was totally enraptured. His lips were parted, and his eyes were shining.

“One was bad enough,” he was saying, biting his lip. There was a slight flush along his cheekbones. “But _both of them…?_ ”

Fíli gave Thorin a long-suffering look and tried to pry Frerin off his arm. “Little uncle, you are worse than a lodestone. Get _off,_ now!”

“But they’re so _pretty_ together _,”_ Frerin moaned. “And so good and brave…!”

“Urgh.”

As the King and his chosen Queen began their procession about their people, Gimli eagerly stepped forward to the Elves at once. “My Lady,” he said, his heart in his voice, and bowed low. “My Lord.”

“Lockbearer, I see your axe found the right tree,” said Galadriel, and she bent and took his hands, pulling him upright. “It eases my heart to see you well.”

“And mine is full at the sight of you,” he said, simply and elegantly.

Celeborn smiled that faint, inscrutable smile. “She has that effect.”

Gimli laughed easily. “Aye, that’s the truth. And my greetings to you as well, Lord Elrond,” he said, with a courteous nod. “I hope your journey did not take you by such dark roads as we walked!”

“No, not so dark, though surely I was tested,” Elrond said, and he tipped his head, studying Gimli with his unblinking eyes. “Did it protect you from truth?”

Gimli frowned, and then Thorin remembered the odd warning Elrond had given in Théoden’s tent before the long march through the Paths of the Dead. “No,” he said slowly. “But then, I find that very little protects one from truth. Neither axes nor armour nor pride can deflect it forever.”

“And that is also truth,” Galadriel said. “Wisely said, my champion.”

Elrond gave a tiny nod, and his gaze alighted upon his daughter and Aragorn. “Indeed.”

“My friends, we have seen the light triumph at long last,” said Gandalf, and he opened his arms and he and Galadriel embraced warmly. Then she kissed his cheek, even as Celeborn took his hand.

“We feared you lost,” he said.

“I’m harder to lose than you’d expect,” Gandalf murmured, and winked at Thorin.

“I’m afraid I’ve not been introduced,” said Gimli, turning to the towering golden-haired Lord and giving a swift polite bow. “Gimli, son of Glóin, of Erebor. At your service.”

“Glorfindel of the house of the Golden Flower,” he said. “At my service, eh? Then would you happen to know where one may get an ale around here? I wish to wash the travel-dust from my mouth!”

Gimli stared for a moment, and then his mouth split in a huge grin. “I think we’re going to get on just fine,” he said. “Wait a moment, I know where they are – and if not, Pippin most surely does!”

“That may not end in dignity,” said Gandalf, watching Gimli bow again before hurrying off.

“Glorfindel?” Thorin wondered. “Sounds familiar.”

“It should,” Gandalf said, and he waved across the crowded field to where Faramir and Éowyn stood. “It is not everyone who can lay claim to killing a Balrog, after all.”

“Balakhûnel,” whispered Fíli, stunned.

“Except me, naturally,” Gandalf added with a modest little smile.

Thorin could not quite see over the milling heads of all the Men and Elves crowded into the tower courtyard. Yet he could hear the piping voice of Pippin and the low rumble of Gimli through the murmurs, carried on the light morning breeze: “Pippin, my lad! Can you tell me where the ale-barrels are?”

“Oh, certainly!” was Pippin’s eager answer. “And since you’re going anyway, would you be so kind as to get me one as well?”

“Already, meleth nîn?” laughed Legolas.

“Not for me, love – ah, well, not only for me? There’s a request from one of our new guests, you see. A bit of road-dust in the throat.”

“Don’t tell me the lady drinks ale?” Sam sounded a little shocked.

“Haven’t the foggiest, but wouldn’t surprise me if she did!” said Gimli. “No, the tall golden fellow from Rivendell, he would like an ale. And we should toast our friend and his bride-to-be! Bad luck otherwise. Dwarvish tradition.”

“Is it really?” said Legolas, sceptically. “I think you made that up.”

“Terrible luck. And for that, you have to drink two,” Gimli told him, all mock-seriousness. Legolas’ bright laughter sounded out, and then there was the sound of a quick kiss. “Now, Pippin, where?”

“Inside the great Hall of the citadel,” said Pippin. “I tell you, it’s a sight more inviting all laden with tables and barrels than it was the first day I saw it!”

“You’re smiling,” Gandalf said, softly.

“There is much to be glad for, today,” Thorin said, and he laid an arm around Fíli’s shoulders, tapping the side of his head with his forehead. “Today is a good day.”

“They seem barely more than children!” came a hushed whisper, followed by the unmistakeable voice of Ioreth.

“Nay, cousin! they are not boys. Those are _Periain_ , out of the far country of the Halflings, where they are princes of great fame, it is said. I should know, for I had one to tend in the Houses. They are small, but they are valiant. Why, cousin, one of them went with only his esquire into the Black Country and fought with the Dark Lord all by himself, and set fire to his Tower, if you can believe it. At least that is the tale in the City. That will be the one that walks with our Elfstone. They are dear friends, I hear. Now he is a marvel, the Lord Elfstone: not too soft in his speech, mind you, but he has a golden heart, as the saying is; and he has the healing hands. “The hands of the king are the hands of a healer”, I said; and that was how it was all discovered. And Mithrandir, he said to me: “Ioreth, men will long remember your words”, and-“

She was interrupted by the return of Gimli, who was carrying two tankards. Legolas was in his wake, holding a tray of wine glasses. “Here, friend!” Gimli said. “Your ale! May it wash away the miles!”

“My thanks, bearded sir!” said Glorfindel, and he took it from the Dwarf and threw half of it down in a single gulp. “Some brewer in this place knows their business,” he said, holding it up and giving it an appreciative look.

“Manthêl!” Gimli said, and took a sip of his own.

“I fear this is no Dorwinion,” Legolas added, offering his tray with a deprecating little grin. “But it is a fine vintage nevertheless, if not up to the standard of the ales hereabout.”

“Your father’s favourite drink is well-known,” said Celeborn with a smile. “Greetings, Cousin. _Mae g'ovannen_. Your journey has been a long one, to come to a strange and unfamiliar triumph.”

 _“Êl síla erin lû e-govaned 'wîn,”_ Legolas replied, as the Elves quickly left his tray empty. “I have come a stranger path than ever I could have dreamed, yet my reward is beyond price.”

Galadriel’s keen eyes bored into him. “The water stirs in your blood,” she said. “You have heard the call of the gulls. I feared it would come to pass.”

“Ach, he’ll not be taking wing anytime soon, not if I’ve any power left in me,” Gimli growled.

“With such powers you possess, I can hardly manage to leave you alone for half a day,” Legolas teased. His hand landed upon Gimli’s shoulder and stroked it, comfortable and fond. “Mysterious one! Will you not tell me what it is you are planning?”

  
  
Gimli and Legolas, at the coronation, by [dreamfleet](https://dreamfleet.tumblr.com/post/152322256872/inktober-21-final-its-actually-art-from-an)  


“I am indeed a very mysterious and secretive fellow, you should know that by now,” said Gimli, squeezing Legolas’ hand in return. Kíli and Fíli snorted in unison.

“Oh, if Balin and Óin had heard you say _that,”_ Kíli said, fighting a grin.

Elrond and Galadriel both paused, and then they met Gandalf’s eyes. The Wizard nodded, so slightly as to be nigh-imperceptible.

“Strange and unfamiliar indeed,” said Elrond slowly.

Gimli stilled, his tankard halfway to his lips. His dark eyes snapped around at the Elves surrounding him. “And does such a thought displease you?”

“Ahhh!” said Glorfindel, pulling away from his own tankard with a hearty sigh, “that ale went too quickly! Friend Dwarf, where did you say the barrels were kept? I shall find us another!”

Elrond gave Glorfindel a barely-concealed look of exasperation. “What?” said the golden Lord, entirely unconcerned that he had interrupted. “I’m thirsty, and I’ll bet he is too. Dwarves like ale. You do, do you not?” He directed that at Gimli, but did not wait for him to answer before shrugging at Elrond. “See?”

“I’m fond of it,” Gimli said, stiffly. “They’re just within the citadel.”

“Ahh, good, good.” Glorfindel began to stride off, his long legs and great height making him stand out like a spear of shining golden light. His hair glowed in the mid-morning sun as he added, “and congratulations to the both of you. Elrond, don’t be a prig, be nice to them.”

And with that, he was off.

“Definitely won’t end in dignity,” Gandalf mused, as Kíli gaped like a fish.

“Where was _he_ when we were in Rivendell!?”

Legolas lifted his chin and met Celeborn’s gaze. His hand tightened upon Gimli’s shoulder. “We have told our people, and they do not approve,” he said, defiance in every line of his face.

“This one does,” said Galadriel, and she bent and kissed their brows in turn, Gimli and then Legolas. “This is a day of joy indeed, that the hopes I saw so long ago have truly all come to be.”

Gimli raised a hand to touch his forehead, before he said, “you _saw?”_

“I did not foresee all,” she said, and her cheeks dimpled. “But enough. I saw a path that might yet be taken, if you were brave enough to dismantle the citadels of hatred that have towered for centuries.”

“Hmm, I wondered,” said Gimli, smiling.

“As did I,” Legolas said, though he still sent suspicious glances towards his kinsman. Celeborn was silent and blank-faced.

“And hope has not failed,” Galadriel said. “And so I ask now, in gladness and peace! Gimli Glóinul, your hands flow with gold, do they not?”

“Aye, they do.” Gimli looked up at Legolas, and his smile softened. “No Dwarf was ever richer.”

“And Legolas Thranduilion, your place is found, though it is where you least expected, is this not true?”

“So long as his heart beats, I have found myself in it,” Legolas said, his chin lifting. Then he looked directly at Celeborn. “Cousin, you will not reassure me? Or do you think as my father does?”

Celeborn shifted from foot to foot, and then he bowed his head. “I have not forgotten my less than gracious greeting to you, Master Gimli,” he said. “It shames me now to remember. For you have brought my kinsman great joy.”

Gimli appeared rather taken-aback to be addressed thusly. “It’s forgotten,” he said at once. “Truly, my Lord. It is forgotten. I would be the greatest of hypocrites were I to hold your words against you, when I myself have said and thought as much of you and yours. Do not keep them any longer! Let us start afresh.”

“My thanks, Master Gimli,” said Celeborn, and he cleared his throat and pressed his hand upon his heart, turning to Legolas and holding his gaze. “And my congratulations. You shall always have a friend in the Golden Wood, both of you.”

“When I sent the Fellowship from my gates, I had little idea that this was to be one of its fruits,” said Elrond. “You have a place in my halls, should you need it.”

“Here you are!” Glorfindel had returned, and he handed a tankard to Gimli. “Looks like you need that! Are they being terribly solemn and enigmatic and portentous? They like to do that.”

Celeborn gave the other Elf a long flat look.

“I like him,” Kíli said, grinning.

“I thank you,” Gimli said, and he carefully threaded his fingers through Legolas’. “I thank you all,” he added, eyes flicking to Celeborn.

Legolas seemed too overwrought to speak, and he gripped Gimli’s hand and took a large swallow of his wine.

“I’m off to meet those Periannath, they look like great fun,” Glorfindel announced, and he wandered off. His bright head easily stood out, towering at least a foot above those of every other man and Elf.

“Do you mind if we-” Legolas began, but he did not finish. Instead, he dragged Gimli away from the Elves, through the crowds and around the side of the citadel tucking them behind the wall and out of sight. It was all Thorin could do to follow, even with Frerin’s swift feet leading the way. He rounded the corner to see Legolas leaning against Gimli’s head, his eyes shut, breathing swiftly.

“Ghivashelê,; Gimli rumbled.

“I am sorry, meleth nîn,” Legolas said quietly. “I was ready to fight, and to find it is not needed has left me directionless for a moment. Let me stay here with you, away from their eyes.”

“They mean well, and to have such noble support is a blessing,” Gimli said, and he kissed the sharp angle of Legolas’ jaw. “But that is not what truly upset you, is it?”

Legolas’ smile was sour. “Perceptive.”

“I just know you,” Gimli countered. “Come on, beloved. Tell me, lest it poison this day for you.”

Legolas was still as stone, and then he burst into quick words and flurried motions of his hands. “We are a novelty!” he cried. “We are a novelty and a curiosity, they peer at us as though we were a spectacle in a cage! I half-expected my cousin to gawk, or throw tidbits to watch me perform and beg for approval! Gimli, I find I am furious.”

“Shh, that is not what was meant!” Gimli caught Legolas’ wrists, and brought the back of his hand close to buss a whiskery kiss upon it. “Celeborn did not mean to cause offense. Did you not hear his apology to me for his words at Lothlórien? No, he was awkward and unsure: he did not intend to make you wait upon his acceptance. We are new, Legolas. We are a shock to even the very wise! Even the lady, even Lord Elrond, with all his great foresight and his far-seeing could not predict us! They will grow used to it in time. But love--” and Gimli pressed Legolas’ hands close to his heart, “—we must also become used to being new. Was it not you who told me to think kindly of the people of Minas Tirith, though they peered at me with open fascination? There will be those who stare, who react poorly, who say foolish things they do not mean. This is the way of things, sad though it is. Have we not said as much or worse to each other? And that is long past and forgiven. Come, we can do the same for them. Forgive them a little shock, Legolas. We have their support and acceptance, and that means much more.”

“I do not feel especially forgiving,” Legolas mumbled, and he buried his face in Gimli’s cloud of hair, smoothed and tidy for once.

Gimli chuckled, deep and fond. “My fierce Elf.”

“All right,” Legolas said, indistinctly. “I will go back. But let us seek out Aragorn and Faramir. I have had enough of being new.”

“I *sincerely hope you do not mind being stared at some more,” Gimli said, touching the silver circlet upon Legolas’ fine head. “You look beautiful, âzyungelê.”

“And you,” Legolas said tenderly. “I like this colour on you, son of Durin.”

“You learn our ways well; it will drive them quite speechlessly mad,” Gimli said, and kissed him. “Come along, let us seek out more comfortable eyes! I hear Éomer has sent for some of the ales of Edoras – do you care to revisit our competition?”

“So fond of losing, meleth nîn?”

“Forty- _two,_ Legolas.”

“You shall ride that particular victory until it drops beneath you, won’t you?”

“Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?”

 

* * *

 

“I’m busy!”

“Does he have a gentle nature? Can he mend a bow? Does he sing?” Laindawar demanded, following Gimrís around the corridors. She had a basket of bottles upon her hip, and a thunderous frown on her lovely face.

“Buzz OFF, you pestersome elf! Can’t you see I’m doing my rounds?”

Laindawar ignored that and continued to march on behind her as though striding into battle. His face, as always, was set and grim. “But can he dance? Does he care for the stars? Will he go hunting with my brother? Is he a decent warrior?”

“One more word and my knives are coming out of their case!”

“Is he as short-tempered and caustic as you?”

“RIGHT, that’s IT!”

  
  
Gimris and Laindawar, by [kazimakuwabara](http://kazimakuwabara.tumblr.com/post/152104542389)  


 

* * *

 

In the days following the coronation, Aragorn’s first order of business were the refugees and the former servants of the Dark Land. Both the slaves freed from the dark army, as well as many of the soldiers, had nowhere to go. The negotiations went slowly, and there were many misunderstandings. The encampment and hospital tents that ringed the city remained, putting much of the populace of Minas Tirith on edge.

Eventually, Aragorn came to the house upon the Sixth Level. Imrahil was in his wake, and the Swan-Lord still seemed at odds with Aragorn upon this issue. His face was disgruntled as he made his greetings.

“My friends,” Aragorn said, and waved Sam off when the Hobbit made to genuflect. “Oh no, Sam, don’t you dare bow to me! I come here to ask a favour. We are still short of translators.”

“Whatever you need, Aragorn, though I am not sure how much help we are to be,” said Frodo uncertainly. “I am a fair speaker of Sindarin, but my Quenya…”

“No, we have many Elvish speakers among us, and they cannot find common ground with the Southrons either.” Aragorn smiled and sat at their table, pushing back his fine sleeves. “I thank you for the kindness, Frodo. But you have given more than any can ever repay, I will not accept more from you. No, I come to ask this favour of Gimli.”

“Me!” Gimli glanced at Legolas. “To be sure, laddie, but I cannot speak Southron any more than I can speak horse!”

“Gimli, I have not spread the knowledge of your secret tongue,” Aragorn said, lowering his voice. “Am I right in thinking that it is spoken by all Dwarves everywhere?”

Gimli froze.

To one side, Óin, Hrera and Thorin all stiffened in unison. “Balin’s goin’ to have kittens,” whimpered Óin.

“Careful, my star,” Thorin said, low. “There is much that will be forgiven when it comes to your One. But secrets to an enemy, that is a more dangerous path.”

“If I misstep, please forgive me, my friend,” Aragorn begged. “But we are low on options. Many of the Southrons do not even trust us to heal them. If they speak our tongue, they will not let us know. This is the only solution I have found.”

“And you think that they will know the tongue of our loremasters?” asked Gimli, his voice very level.

“Not the Men, no.” Aragorn tapped the table-top, drumming with his fingers restlessly. “There are dwarves amongst them.”

Gimli’s eyes turned huge and round. “Truly? Orocarni Dwarves, here?”

“They came with the armies,” Imrahil confirmed. “Not many: perhaps two dozen all told. They keep much to themselves. But they speak the language of the Southrons…”

“And you think I might be able to speak to them in Khuzdul, and they to the Men in turn?” Gimli sat back, and stroked his beard. “It is true that it is the tongue our Maker gifted us. What do you not say, Lad? Why turn to me?”

Aragorn sighed. “You know that this realm was established by my ancestor Elendil the faithful, fleeing the corruption and destruction of Númenor and its mad emperors.” He paused, as though steeling himself against what he was yet to say. “Yet what is not often remembered is that for long centuries before the cataclysm, the prideful Kings of that unhappy isle also tormented and dominated the southern Men of Middle-Earth. Though they began with first overtures of friendship, as the corruption of the Blessed Isle continued, so did they turn unfriendly and cruel. They established colonies with themselves as rulers and enslaved the people. They dominated the South, demanded tribute, and brought the worship of Melkor to many peoples. To Umbar, Harad and Khand, Númenor is not a name to be revered.”

Gimli was silent, measuring.

“The corsairs of Umbar have harried Gondor for centuries, and in return we have crushed them over and again. Indeed, I have led a party to Umbar, to halt their raidings,” Aragorn said, and closed his eyes, frowning in remembrance and regret. “Years ago, when I was Thorongil. I burned their city and killed the Captain of the Haven myself.”

“In other words, the relationship’s a mess,” said Gimli bluntly.

“To put it mildly,” Imrahil said. “They will not accept overtures of peace, and wilfully misunderstand our help. They are suspicious and scornful.”

“And would you not be, in their position?” Aragorn said, his eyes lighting up. It had the snap of an argument long repeated.

“They came here to kill us!” Imrahil snarled, but it was tired and frustrated.

“And we’ve done quite enough o’ that. Aragorn’s right, let’s try something new for a change.” Gimli stood. “Legolas, I would welcome your company.”

“They distrust Elves as well,” said Aragorn, heavily.

“Then Gandalf?” Gimli turned to the Wizard, who held out his open hands.

“I have tried,” he said. “They remember my brother and sister, the Blue Wizards, though they cannot recall their ends. I have _some_ influence. But not enough to dispel centuries of mistrust.”

“Hmm. A pretty pickle you are throwing me into, Aragorn!” Gimli then lowered his voice to a mutter, “and as though I do not have enough to do already!”

Hrera bit on her knuckle. “It has been too long, too long since we had good dealings with the South,” she said. “Thorin darling, he should see it through. At least it is worth a try.”

Óin only waved a hand in irritation. “Oh, why bother protesting? He’ll only do it anyway.”

Gimli’s lip twitched. “Aye, it is worth a try, and I have some experience in overcoming centuries of mistrust. Very well, lead me on. I would welcome a Dwarven face, it has been a long time.”

“Be careful,” Legolas called after them.

“Are you sure?” Thorin hissed, striding behind his star. Gimli did not speak, but he nodded his head once in answer.

“Your boy has a smidgen of political sense, I see,” Hrera said, gathering up her skirts and hurrying after them. “This is an opportunity that cannot be missed.”

Thorin shot her a look. “I suspect he heard you, Grandmother, urging him on.”

She clacked her tongue. “Oh. Well I suppose it was too much to expect from a Longbeard after all. Perhaps we’ll need Balin’s experience here, do you suppose?”

“No, Mahal _no_ , I’d never live it down,” Óin said.

“He’ll hear of it eventually,” Thorin said. “He’s my seneschal; all information is being passed to him.”

“Don’t speak of such unpleasant things,” Óin growled, and picked up his pace.

Gimli followed Aragorn and Imrahil out of the City and towards the encampment in the shadow of the peak. There, the tent was indicated to him, and he regarded it with a solemn face before turning back. “You will leave me to do this alone,” he said, utterly serious. “I have allowed much, Aragorn, and let more slip, that I should not have. But they will not permit such liberties, and I will not make light with what little trust they can grant me. So I must be a Dwarf alone amongst Dwarves, and no Man can hear our talk.”

Imrahil looked ready to argue, but Aragorn gripped Gimli’s hand in assent. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Don’t thank me yet, lad, I’ve yet to win them over - and you know my temper!” And with that, Gimli squared his shoulders and made his way towards the tent.

As he approached, there was a hissing sound of shock. Then a voice snapped, “Ra ku' zu?”

“Akhrâmê Gimli Glóinul, zai adshânzi,” Gimli replied, and he bowed to the closed tent flap.

“Zusul astû?”

“Kun.”

“Du birâjzur aidâg udu targkhi! Asakhi nu' Labamzarszudnu atun.”

“Aye.” Gimli made shooing motions towards Aragorn and Imrahil. “Buhamê. Ma binibrêtizd.”

A short pause followed, and then the dwarf inside asked,  “Urstarg?”

Gimli nodded his bright head. “Ra Sigintarg. Ma akhrukhab zu. Ins Mahal taglibi luknu.”

“Hmm.” There was some whispering, and then a dwarf stepped from the tent, holding the flap open. She had dark skin, glinting golden jewellery set with bright turquoise and lapis lazuli, and her hair was wrapped in a many-coloured scarf.  “Idmi, Gimli Glóinul. Akhrâmê Kara Korinul, khuzdu Naragzant.”

“Bakn galikh, Kara Korinul,” Gimli said politely. “I’m going in,” he said shortly to Aragorn and Imrahil. “Stay there, do NOT follow me. Got it?”

Aragorn nodded at once, though Imrahil shifted impatiently. “Go then, and tell me what it is I can do to make this right,” said Aragorn.

“Right now, you can stay put,” Gimli said, and he crossed to the tent to bow again to Kara. “Zabirasakhjami?”

“Idrinat,” said Kara, her eyes flicking between Gimli and the Men with open dislike. Gimli ducked his head, and entered the tent.

Within, there was another Dwarf. They clearly had a terrible injury to their arm, and Gimli immediately knelt before them. “Mukhuh e?”

The older Dwarf regarded him with a mulish expression, before holding out their arm. Gimli felt around carefully at once, and nodded at the skilful field-surgery that had gone into the setting of the bone. Still, it was not healing swiftly. The old Dwarf could use some of Aragorn’s aid. “Shamukh, ra galikh ai-mâ.”

“Ra ku’ ‘ala, Kara?” snapped the old Dwarf irritably. They also wore a headwrap, patterned in bright blue and orange, and a silver chain was looped from their nose-ring to their ear.

“Gimli Glóinul. Ustarg ra Sigintarg, zelûmu,” said Kara.

“Fahmûnu,” Gimli corrected politely. “Azsâlul'abadaya.”

“Ahhh.” The old dwarf subsided slightly. “Dáin zirinhanâdaya, khuzd bahir.”

“Astûglabu asjârlagb?”

“Some,” said the old Dwarf, guarded. “Kara more than I.”

Gimli had the good sense not to ask why they had hidden their knowledge of Westron. “Your name, honoured Dwarf?” he asked.

“Ashkar, child of Ashrudu,” said the old Dwarf. “The others get me to do the speaking, as I am the eldest. What brings a Northern Dwarf here to this accursed place?”

Gimli smiled. “I was part of a company put together to destroy Sauron’s ring.”

Both Ashkar and Kara gawped at him.

“We succeeded too,” Gimli added. “The Black Land is no threat any longer. Sauron is dead. Can you move your arm? My friend has arts of healing, he would soon fix this infection…”

“We have our own healing arts. Is your friend a Man of Gondor?”

“Aye.” Gimli winced. “He’s... um, he’s the King of Gondor, actually.”

“Then I want no part of it,” Ashkar growled.

“Hear me out,” Gimli said, and he sat back on his heels. “They truly wish to deal in good faith: I would not be here otherwise. As Mahal guides and names me, I swear it! Have you been given food?”

“Yes, and this tent, and water.” Kara scowled at Ashkar. “Some of us mistrusted even that.”

“I’ve had enough of soft promises from Men that hold knives behind their backs,” snapped Ashkar. “When you are my age, young one, you will know better!”

“Will you tell me of this?” Gimli asked them. “I swear on Durin’s name, I swear as he will live again, I hold no knife behind my back.”

Thorin listened in amazement as another tale of war unfolded before him, running parallel to their own. The Dwarves of the East had ever held to Mahal above all others, forsaking the Cult of Melkor that had all too often circulated amongst the populations of Men. The Orocarni were prosperous and rich beyond dreaming, a trade centre with routes that stretched from the jungles of Far Harad all the way to the Iron Hills.

As Sauron slept, the Cult had been dormant. Laws drifted away from Sauronic influence over time, and more freedoms had been enjoyed by the people of the South.

Then, eighty years prior, the Cult had made a reappearance. Gimli grunted, and said, “so that is where his spirit fled once he was ousted from Dol Guldur, before he declared himself in Mordor; a mystery solved at last.”

Still, the four clans of the Dwarves had kept to their own, forsaking Sauron and the worship of Morgoth, and keeping to their massive strongholds in the Orocarni. The Blacklocks, however, had kept open their ties to the mighty ports of Umbar and the great spice trade at the harbour of Bozisha Dar, in Harad.

The Blacklocks even allowed Men of the Nomadic peoples to dwell with them during their winters, as was long custom, trading and mingling freely, growing in wealth and friendship.  

It had been some time after the re-appearance of Melkor’s Cult, about fifty years ago, that Men of Black Númenorean descent had swarmed from the crumbling, ancient city of An-Karagmir in Umbar, spreading themselves across the land. From the powerful, ancient and rich coastal cities through the desert camps and semi-nomadic stations they came, moving and currying favour.

Eventually this resurgence made its way all across Near Harad, deep into Rhûn, and thence to the Orocarni. The cult had grown even more powerful and vigorous, as though enlivened by something inexplicable, something unknowable.

 _The ring,_ Thorin’s mind whispered, and he gritted his teeth. Would it have been fifty years ago that the ring had begun to wake from its long slumber? Its arm was truly long, then, if it could reach across the leagues from Bilbo’s dressing-gown pocket, stirring such mischief.

The cult of Morgoth quickly took over political positions, jostling and jockeying for power, and its numbers began to soar, Ashkar told them grimly. Some of the men who lived amongst the dwarves had been swayed. At first it had been fine words and gifts, but soon, it had been dangerous to openly speak of them. They courted influence and favour. Those Dwarves who stood in their way were conveniently discredited and banished – and some simply disappeared for good.

“Fifty years ago?” Gimli said, and his eyes narrowed in thought. “Tell me, would you know the name of Orla, daughter of Ara?”

Kara clapped her hands over her mouth, and Ashkar gasped, gripping at their injured arm. “How do you know that name?!”

Very carefully, Gimli said, “she is second in command of Erebor’s armies, and wed to my cousin Dwalin. They have three fine children. Is there something we should know of?”

“Is there!” Kara shouted, throwing up her hands. “IS there!”

“Orla Araul was cast out nearly fifty years ago, falsely accused of murder,” said Ashkar, their voice like steel. “She spoke out against the cultists, and they removed her. They sat someone more to their liking upon her throne.”

Hrera gasped loudly. “Oh, Telphor’s nose,” she breathed, stunned beyond further words.

“My mother, Arna,” spat Kara. She turned away, breathing slowly through her nose. “My poor, drugged, biddable mother. They propped her up on the throne and called her _your Majesty_ after Queen Ara died - no, after they _killed_ her, poisoned her, and blamed Orla for it! Arna has done their will ever since, in fear and delirium.”

Thorin staggered. That meant – that meant that Dwalin – that _Wee Thorin was…_

Kara balled her fists, her huge long-lashed eyes bright with anger. She was indeed very young - probably around the same age as Fíli. She had the same proud jaw and full lips as Orla. “But _I_ am not afraid! It was not to their liking that I was carved more like my aunt. So I was sent here to die on this foreign field, like all the other dissenters, and she said nothing. My own mother! I’ll never bear her name again.”

“Lady, I sorrow for you, but I am still trying to come to terms with your _first_ news!” Gimli exclaimed. “Our Orla Longaxe, heir to a crown? But Orla - but - she said she came to Erebor to see the world and seek her fortune as a warrior! To become more than she was allowed!”

“A clever lie, then, to deflect attention. Orla Araul is the rightful Queen of the Blacklocks,” said Ashkar, and their old eyes were glittering. “Did you not know?”

 

* * *

 

Thira’s breath made small clouds of white in the chill air of the tombs. It was very loud, hissing and scraping through her throat. Her heartbeat was rattling her chest.

She was a _smith._ She was a _smith._ Not a warrior. Just a _smith._

“You thought everyone had forgotten you, didn’t you?”

Thira tried to stop the shaking in her limbs.

“They’d most certainly all forgotten _me,_ more fool they.”

Thira blinked away tears. “Just let me… all I wanted was to say goodbye before they took him to…”

“Oh, goodbye, is it?” There was a low and ugly laugh. “Certainly! Say goodbye, ugly little beast. You’re coming with me.”

“Hold onto him!” Nori howled, and Víli hung on with all his might.

“I AM, I AM!” he shouted back.

“You can…” Thira tried to lift her chin away from the blade at her neck. “You can keep their jewellery. Just let me go. Please let me go!”

“Let me GO!” Dáin roared, struggling against Víli and Nori’s arms. “I’m goin’ to headbutt my way back into life and KILL that piece of-”

“Do you suppose I need permission from one such as you?” the woman sneered. “I am _done_ waiting on permission from you filthy smelly little toads! Of _course_ I am keeping their jewellery: what use is it, lying there on their dead chests? It’s too good for them anyway. It should be mine.”

“Please…” Thira gasped, gripping at the woman’s arm.

“You wouldn’t be any the wiser, any of you, if you hadn’t interrupted me,” spat her attacker. “I’d be rich again, and far from this dunghill.”

“Let him go, Víli, let go of him!” Nori yelped, even as Dáin pulled free of them. His fist immediately swung through the woman's head, passing through harmlessly. “Dáin, you old fool, we’re trying to help!”

“Help HOW?” Dáin thundered, and he lashed out with another ineffectual punch. “She has _my wife!”_

“Well, we were trying to save you the sight of how useless we all are,” Víli sighed.

There was a clatter from the long stairwell as others approached, and the sounds of easy chatter. The body of Dáin Ironfoot was to be sent to his last resting place upon this day, travelling via cart to the Iron Hills, and there were many preparations to make.

Thira’s lips moved soundlessly in prayer, and watching, Dáin wept in anger.

“Now, your Majesty,” said the woman, yanking at Thira’s long braided hair. “You’re coming with me. You’re my ticket away from this place. They wouldn’t want their precious Dowager Queen harmed now, would they?”

“Amad?” came the startled voice, and Thira looked through squinting, stinging eyes at her son. His mouth was open, and his sword was already drawn. Behind him stood Jeri, Orla, Dwalin and Dís.

“Thorin,” she croaked. “Stay back…”

“Oh Mahal, thank you, _thank you,_ ” said Dáin explosively. “Right! Kick her arse, boy!”

“Let go of her, Inorna!” the Stonehelm growled.

“Back!” Inorna screeched, and the knife dug into the soft skin of Thira’s neck. One of her beard-braids fell to the floor. “Drop your weapon!”

“Thorin,” Jeri said, warningly. “Do as she says.”

The Stonehelm very carefully placed his sword on the ground before him.

“Kick it away!” snarled Inorna.

His face like granite, the King did so.

“Don’t you even _think_ -” began Dáin, his chest swelling. But Víli grabbed his forearm again and shook it. It seemed harder than metal or stone beneath his hands.

“No, he must keep his temper!” he snapped. “He must!”

Dáin glared at him, his cheeks shiny with tears and red from his exertions. “I know,” he grated. “Damn you, Víli, I know that! D’you think _I_ wouldn’t know that! But that’s my _Thira_ , my iron lass, and my boy is…”

He turned back to the awful scene. “They’re as helpless as we are,” he said, rough and scratchy in his throat. “Trapped behind glass.”

“And the rest of you!” Inorna whirled, yanking at Thira’s hair as she did so. “That axe! All of them, get rid of them! You’ll let me through, or her blood hits the floor!”

“I see you’re not feelin’ quite so delicate now,” said Dwalin in an even rumble, throwing Grasper and Keeper to the floor with a clatter. "Not goin' to faint, are you?"

“Thira, hold on,” Dís said softly.

“Bless you, love,” whispered Víli.

Two tears squeezed from Thira’s eyes, but she swallowed and tried to breathe. “I’m all right,” she managed.

“And you’re going to stay that way, aren’t you?” cooed Inorna, smiling triumphantly. “Let me pass. Once I’m rid of this rat-infested hellhole I will let her go unharmed.”

“No she won’t,” murmured Nori.

“No you won’t,” said Orla. Her eyes bored into Inorna’s, and her shoulders bulked huge under her armour.

“I swear it,” Inorna said. “Do as I say, and no-one will be hurt. But if you threaten me, you grubby little filth, then she will-”

“Stop insulting us,” said the Stonehelm through gritted teeth. “Let my mother go, and keep those words out of your mouth.”

“So eager to see her neck cut?” Inorna taunted him. “See what you have wrought, through your selfishness and greed?”

Dís laughed, harsh and awful to hear. “Our greed?”

“You vicious, spiteful, _venomous_ …:” Dáin spat. “I’d fight the bloody Orc again rather than _you._ At least the orc was honest!”

“Whom do you think they will believe, out there?” Inorna tugged at Thira’s hair again, jerking her chin upwards. “Me? Or you? Famous for your greed, you are, all of you Dwarves! You’d lay priceless treasures on the breasts of the dead, rather than giving it into needy hands!”

“I want my knives,” Nori said, his lip curling. “Oooooh, I am feelin’ _creative_ today.”

“We gave everything we had into needy hands,” said the Stonehelm. His nostrils flared. “Every last crust, and you spurned it. We gave the food from our smallest child to our oldest greybeard, and you destroyed it. We even gave our _King_ – we gave my father’s life, all to make a diversion! What more would you have from us?”

Dáin scrubbed hard at his eyes. “Blast it, inùdoy,” he said, “ _I_ gave my life. I chose to give it for you and my people, to put an end to a blood-feud going back centuries. Don’t you act as though it was something this creature stole from us!”

Víli patted his shoulder. “He doesn’t see that yet,” he said. “He is a child who just lost a father. Believe me, as far as he is concerned, you were stolen.”

Dáin looked at him with reddened eyes. “Well, I suppose you’d know.”

“There is a difference between needy hands,” said Orla calmly, “and grasping hands. But you would not understand that.”

Inorna glared at them. “Let me _through._ ”

“Let her go,” countered Dwalin. “Stay calm, Thira.”

“Trying,” Thira croaked.

“Oh, my brave iron beauty,” Dáin moaned.

“Back!” Inorna began to press forward, her hand wrapped cruelly in Thira’s dark braids to force her movement. “Back, I say, all of you!”

Her eyes aflame, Dís took a deliberate step backwards, leaving clear the stairwell that led down into the tombs. “She’s wearing Dáin’s rings on her fingers. She pulled them off his cold hands,” she said beneath her breath. “Abrâfu shaikmashâz.”

“Oh mahumb, please tell me he ain’t gonna go berserk again,” Nori sighed. Dáin was breathing hard again, and his whole body was alight with wrath.

“You’ll not speak that disgusting mole-language around me!” Inorna said, rounding on Dís. “Hold a civil tongue in your head, if you can’t speak as proper folk do!”

“Where’s Bard?” said Jeri, their jaw rippling. “He should be dealing with this, not us!”

“He’s taken some of his folk back down to Dale,” said the Stonehelm, anger making his voice choppy and clipped. He was quite obviously holding onto his temper by his fingernails.

“Oh, I won’t be troubling our dear young Bard,” Inorna said, sweet as poison. “I’ll take myself south, I think. There was enough wealth wasted here upon these corpses to buy myself passage a hundred times over. If you’re nice, I’ll return your Queen to you via a nice cosy barrel, what do you say? I hear you like that sort of thing.”

Dwalin made a sound like a furious bear.

“Knives,” Nori said with a hard little smile. “Ooooh yes. Yes indeed.”

Inching Thira along, Inorna pressed through the tombs towards the stairs, her eyes darting this way and that as she went. “Don’t try anything clever,” she said, and pushed her blade closer against Thira’s throat. The Queen closed her eyes, breathing loudly through her nose. “Just let me pass. There’s a good little goblin.”

“YOU BLOODY A-”

“DAMN IT – Nori help me! Dáin, Dáin control yourself!”

“I’LL TEAR UP THE VEIL AND THROTTLE YOU WITH IT, YOU EVIL-”

“Goblin!” Jeri cried in fury, their hands fisting and unfisting. They stood, solid and unmoving as stone, watching Inorna and Thira side-step their way to the stairs as though it were some horrible dance.

As she gained the first stair, Inorna turned Thira so her body was between them. “How does it feel, Dwarf-King?” she said viciously. “To have me stand in judgement over _you?_ To take away what _you_ love!”

“For the last time,” the Stonehelm said, his chest heaving, “we did not take a damned thing from you. The _Orcs_ sacked Dale and stole your gold and goods!”

“Oh so simple, and so wrong!” Inorna crowed. “It was _you!_ Wishing to seem magnanimous, you would have us crawl and beg for your favour! So very kindly and wise, oh yes quite! That is how you wish to appear! Well, _I_ am the most powerful noble in Dale and I have no need of your _filthy_ approval; I am well shot of you, and of this festering pit you call a mountain. And that simpering fool Krummett too, he was weak and stupid, always too stupid! And I’ll keep my word, Dwarf King. I’ll send your precious mother back.” She laughed, high and grating. “Just don’t expect her to arrive in one barrel!”

Dáin went still and cold, his fury coalescing around him like an icy halo.

“Oh no,” said Nori, inching back. “Um. Víli. May wish to get down. These noble Durin types get sort of… explosive. When they do that… cold blue eyes thing?”

Víli pressed himself up against the wall. “Don’t have to tell me twice!”

The Stonehelm watched Inorna rave, his eyes flat. “Now,” he said, sharp as the crack of a whip.

With a whisper of air, an arrowhead blossomed in the centre of Inorna’s forehead. The woman was caught with her mouth open, and then with a sigh she slid to the ground.

It seemed too quiet an end after such malice.

“Mahal, _finally,_ ” said Jeri, blowing out a long breath.

As Inorna’s corpse crumpled, Thira stumbled forward into the Stonehelm’s arms. He clung to her tightly. Dis and Orla immediately surrounded her, pushing back her hair and rubbing her back.”Breathe,” Orla said, in her brusque way. “Thira, breathe now.”

Revealed at the top of the stairwell was Merilin, her bow raised high. By her side was Dori.

“I told you it was not the last we would see of her,” the Elf murmured.

Dáin stood, quivering and quaking, his whole body tensed and ready for violence.

“Dáin?” Víli crept forward. “Dáin? It’s over.”

“I’m all righ’,” he said, his voice extremely controlled. “She’s dead.”

Then he spun on his glittering foot, and spat at the body. “And good riddance, too.  Kakhuf inbarathrag.”

Dori’s hand was lifted to his shoulder, rubbing there. His face was cross. “I would have preferred to have the satisfaction myself,” he grumbled. “Is everyone all right? Mistress Thira, you seem a mite shaken. Mister Dwalin? Mistress Orla? Honoured Jeri? Mistress Dís? Mister Stone – oh, do pardon me – your Majesty? Everyone whole?”

“I’m all right,” Thira gasped, and her son’s hand cupped her head close. “I’m all right.”

“Thira,” Dáin breathed. “Oh, Thira, my Thira…”

“She has cut your braid,” Dís muttered, and she gave the dead woman a look of utter hatred. “Stealing from the dead. And she has the gall to call _us_ selfish.”

“That’s what a war will do, I suppose,” Orla said absently, picking up her long-handled axe. “Most people will band together, to be sure. But there’ll always be those with an agenda, looking for the main chance, driving a wedge wherever they can.”

“You sound like Nori,” Dori told her with a sour little twist to his lips.

“Nah, she hasn’t got my pretty way wiv words,” Nori said dismissively.

“Thank you,” the Stonehelm said to Merilin. His eyes were wet and he was shaking. “Thank you for saving her.”

“It was my pleasure, Majesty,” Merilin said. She gave a small, graceful shrug. “I did try to warn her.”

“What brought you back here?” asked Jeri. “I mean, I’m not complaining, your timing was impeccable, but why were you coming down here in the first place?”

“My King sent me,” Merilin said. “as to the rest, it was luck.”

“King Thranduil wishes to speak to you,” Dori confirmed when the Stonehelm turned to him with a question in his eyes. “And to you, Lady Dís.”

“Let me guess, about Gimli again?” Dís shared a look with Orla, who snorted.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Merilin said, and her dark face was amused. “He is not satisfied with the answers that Mizim gives him. He wishes for more accounts.”

“We could set Gimizh on him, he’d learn more of Gimli in half an hour than he ever wanted to,” Dís said. Her eyes fell on the body tumbled at the foot of the stairs. “We must put their jewellery back.”

“I’ll do it,” said Jeri. “Won’t make you lay a hand on that.”

“Thank you,” said the Stonehelm, and he peered down at Thira in the circle of his arms. Her trembling was beginning to subside. “Ask King Thranduil to extend his patience with us for the moment. We will visit with him later and speak of Gimli. Now, my mother needs me.”

Dáin sank to the floor and put his face in his hands. “At the foot of my bloody coffin, even,” he said, indistinctly. "At the bloody foot of my bloody  _coffin."_

“Now, don’t get big-headed,” said Víli, and he glanced up to watch his aged wife departing, her steps creaky and stiff, her hair gone completely grey. “Still, I suppose we can call that the end of the war in the North.”

“Unless Thranduil decides to reopen hostilities, o’course,” Nori added.

“You just _had_ to say that, didn’t you?”

 

* * *

 (TBC!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **KHUZDUL**  
>  melhekhel - King of all Kings  
> âzyungelê – Love of all loves  
> ghivashelê – Treasure of all treasures.  
> inùdoy - son  
> Balakhûnel – the most powerful man of powerful men  
> Manthêl – cheers of all cheers (a toast!)  
> ra ku' zu? – and who are you?  
> Akhrâmê Gimli Glóinul, zai adshânzi – my name is Gimli son of Glóin, at your service.  
> Zusul astû – are you alone?  
> Kun – Yes  
> Du birâjzur aidâg udu targkhi! Asakhi nu' Labamzarszudnu atun. – to pull fish from your beard! (i.e. to lie), I see two Men of Gondor.  
> Buhamê. Ma binibrêtizd – friends of mine. They’re not staying.  
> Urstarg? – Firebeard?  
> Ra Sigintarg – and Longbeard.  
> Ma akhrukhab zu. – I will not harm you.  
> Ins Mahal taglibi luknu – it is as Mahal himself would speak (it’s the truth)  
> Idmi, Gimli Glóinul. Akhrâmê Kara Korinul, khuzdu Naragzant – welcome Gimli son of Glóin. My name is Kara daughter of Korin, A dwarf of the Blacklocks.  
> Bakn galikh. – good morning.  
> zabirasakhjami. – Formal please (lit. ‘would you grant?’)  
> idrinat – Go ahead.  
> Mukhuh e? – May I? (formal)  
> ra ku’ ‘ala? – who is this?  
> Shamukh, ra galikh ai-mâ – Greetings, and may good be upon us.  
> Gimli Glóinul. Ustarg ra Sigintarg, zelûmu – Gimli son of Gloin, a Firebeard and Longbeard, a Westerner.  
> Fahmûnu – A Northerner.  
> Azsâlul'abadaya – I am from the Lonely Mountain  
> Dáin, zirinhanâdaya khuzd bahir – Dain of the Iron Hills, he is a wise dwarf  
> Astûglabu asjârlagb? – Do you speak Westron?  
> Abrâfu shaikmashâz! – descendant of rats.  
> Kakhuf inbarathrag – Goat turd
> 
>  **SINDARIN**  
>  Mae g'ovannen – you are well met  
> Êl síla erin lû e-govaned 'wîn – a star shines on the hour of our meeting  
> Periannath - Hobbits  
> Meleth nin - my love
> 
> The Orocarni - the Red Mountains, the MASSIVE mountain range in the east of Middle-Earth, where four of the seven Dwarf clans dwell: the Stiffbeards, Stonefoots, Ironfists and Blacklocks. 
> 
> Númenor and the invasion of the south of Middle-Earth - sadly, canon. This is from the Silmarillion, detailed in the Akallabêth. The Kings of the isle of Númenor, thwarted from sailing west to Aman, instead conquered many lands in Middle-Earth. They took over and built a great fortress at the port-city of Umbar, and at first were friendly towards the local peoples. However, as the decline of Númenor began and they became ever more acquisitive, proud and greedy, they became colonisers and oppressors of the people of Southern Middle-Earth. They demanded tribute, traded in slaves, used the Haradrim for human sacrifice, and disseminated the worship of Morgoth. After the fall of Númenor, the south became a haven for the Black Númenoreans (or King's Men), of which the Mouth of Sauron was one. 
> 
> Harad, Khand and Umbar - the southern confederate of nations allied with each other against Gondor. [Tolkien Gateway](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Haradrim) has a good summary of the history of all these nations, which do not enter the main text of LOTR in much detail. They have a history of both being attacked by, and attacking, the people of Gondor.
> 
> Aragorn and the city of the Corsairs - also canon!! Aragorn, in his guise as Thorongil under the rule of Ecthelion (Denethor's father), sacked the city of the Corsairs and slew the Captain of the Haven. 
> 
> Khuzdul - was “a tongue of lore rather than a cradle-speech" according to the LOTR Appendices. The Dwarves "tended it and guarded it as a treasure of the past."
> 
> Glorfindel - there is a small amount of controversy as to whether the Glorfindel in the books is indeed the hero of Gondolin re-embodied! Yet most seem to agree, after reading Tolkien's writings on the matter, that this Glorfindel is the same as the one of the First Age who slew the Balrog at the fall of Gondolin and so saved Idril and Tuor. 
> 
> Some words and lines taken from _The Return of the King_ Chapter: 'The Steward and the King". ~~because Ioreth is my favourite~~
> 
> Iorlas is a mentioned character in the books: the uncle of Bergil son of Beregond. The etymology of their names suggests that Iorlas is most likely Bergil's mother's brother.
> 
> hint hint: Pay attention to the song Gimli is writing ;)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Orocarni and Southron socio-political background expanded and contributed by the amazing [dain-mothafocka](https://%20dain-mothafocka.tumblr.com), who is an actual Blacklock. Thank you, my friend and my King.  
> (Go follow Jon's incredible WIP [Rise of the Nazbukhrin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1423831/chapters/2992102)!)
> 
>  
> 
> **As always, thank you so much for your continued support! We're getting there, the end is in sight - but I hope to have a few more surprises up my sleeve upon the way! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. *hugs to all* !**


	44. Chapter Forty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the masterposts have simply grown TOO HUGE, and tumblr is repeatedly borking under their great weight (of links lmao). So, they have now moved to a new address!
> 
> [The Mighty Sansukh Masterpost](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sans%C3%BBkh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost) of all Art, Fic, Music, Podfic and the Graphic Novel now links to a series of Google Documents!! 
> 
> ~~which hopefully will not bork any time soon!~~  
> 
> Please enjoy all the amazing fanworks - and I hope you like the chapter! *chews fingernails to the bone*

“Go North,” Gimli said, handing Kara a bedroll and a water-skin. “You will find sanctuary in Erebor. I will write to them.”

Ashkar’s face was sardonic. “I do not think that Orla will be so pleased to see us, somehow.”

“You never know, though, do you?” Gimli countered, and he gave the Blacklock a stout walking stick to ease their leg. “The passes will remain clear for some time yet: the rout of the North has sent all the Orcs scurrying to their holes, and with summer upon us there is no better time to travel. Stop at the houses of the Beornings, they have ever been friends to us.”

Then he pulled his throwing axe from his boot (Merry had given it back after the battle) and held it out with poor grace. “There. Take that. Everyone in the Mountain will know it is mine.”

“Why would you offer this?” said Ashkar, their voice flat and suspicious. “Why offer us sanctuary?”

Gimli smiled at them, and shook the axe slightly until they took it. “Because Dwalin is my kinsman and teacher, and Orla is a friend. And perhaps the world should grow smaller now that there is no great force for evil keeping us apart. I mean to start a colony in Rohan, if my King permits: if Erebor does not suit you, then perhaps that will - until the day when you can return to your home.”

“I don’t think that will ever happen,” said Kara, her young face bitter.

“Who knows what is possible, in these days?” Gimli said gently. “No, I do not try to patronise you. Only do not give up hope. Your Aunt is still living, is she not, when you had all given her up for dead?”

“I suppose,” Kara said.

“Go North, my friends, and be reunited.” Gimli pressed a hand to his breast, and bowed. “Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal.”

...

_To Orla daughter of Ara,_

_I know this letter may come as something of a shock, and for that I apologise. You may wonder why I write to you and not to Dwalin who was my teacher and friend. I will not dissemble nor dodge; I will move straight to the heart of it._

_I have made the acquaintance of some Blacklock Dwarves here in Minas Tirith. They had been sent into the vanguard of the war as punishment for their loyalty to you and your memory. I do not censure or judge you for your misdirection: I understand your reasons for secrecy._

_I am so sorry._

_I’m also heartily ashamed that a Queen has seen me staggering drunk at practice drill._

_Ashkar and Kara send their love and their heartiest congratulations to you upon your family. Kara also wishes to add that you missed seeing her beard come in._

_Ashkar wishes to say: everything went to camel dung in your absence, and they are looking forward to seeing you soon, and that nobody has dared play ‘uzghu ma ziraku against them since you fled the Ghomali court._

_They are also glad you found the cache upon your escape._

_I intend to depart soon for the North and home, following a short detour, and shall be at Erebor before the winds grow chill. Give my gratitude and love to my revered teacher, and tell him his instructions have kept my hide intact._

_Ashkar and Kara and their folk intend to go North also, as soon as Ashkar is fit for travel. They sustained a wound, but will recover. I cannot say whether they will reach Erebor before we do: thus, I warn and prepare you for what may come._

_(Legolas remarks to me that our efforts at forewarning others have so far fallen flat: I can only hope for your sake that this time we shall have better luck. I understand that the Mountain is in some uproar, and I can only apologise for the difficulty we have made for you and your efforts to keep peace.)_

_Whatever you so choose, please know that you always have and always will have,_

_My deepest respect,_

_Gimli son of Glóin_

…

“I think…. it may possibly be finished,” Gimli said, squinting at the ring lying upon his palm. “You’re sure it is not too… amateurish?”

“I’d be proud to call it my work,” Thorin assured him.

Gimli turned it over, and then raised it to the light to check the final polish. Silver and gold wire had been twined carefully around it and then heated and shaped onto the body of the ring. The repeated stoneflower motif of Gimli’s helm and gear was now wreathed in forest vines. “Still not one-hundred-percent sure of the sizing,” he grunted.

“Well, you’re close enough, I should say.” Thorin watched Gimli slip the ring onto his pinky-finger, where it sat snugly at the second knuckle only. It was the closest he had found to a measure.

“Mahal will it so,” Gimli sighed. Taking off the ring, he slipped it into a felted pouch and tucked it into his jerkin. “Now to find the right moment… or to let the right moment arrive, I suppose.”

…

“Tell me what you have discovered.”

Thranduil was apparently lounging indolently in his chair, his hands long and graceful where they fell over the carved stone arms.

“Very little, Adar,” Laindawar said with a scowl. “They will not answer my questions. The sister, Gimrís , has nothing positive to say of her brother at all. And if she who is his sister has naught but scorn to share, what more can we expect of others? What has our Legolas tied himself to?”

Thranduil’s eyes did not flicker, but his jaw rippled. “I see.”

“The King has mentioned this Gimli’s skill at arms,” Thranduil continued, his voice smooth. “That is not small praise in a kingdom of warriors.”

“His sister tells me he is nothing but muscle-bound idiocy,” Laindawar said. His fists bunched at his side. “She will not answer any of my very reasonable questions, and I fear their answers may be terrible. A Dwarf that will not comb his hair! And a Dwarf of the Line of Durin besides: you know their curse as well as I. I dread to think what has become of our brother, what this Gimli will do to him. You know how they are about their treasures…”

Beside him, Laerophen let out a soft snort.

Thranduil tipped his head. “Something to add, ionneg?”

Laerophen started under the sudden attention, and drew himself up to his full towering, gawky height, shifting between his feet. “Well, yes… may I speak frankly?”

“I will have nothing less from you, my son,” said Thranduil, but his gaze softened as he looked upon his secondborn.

“Are you _senseless_?”

Thranduil’s face, once again, did not change. Laindawar’s head snapped to his brother, and he glared like a thunderstorm.

“Perhaps you have been won over by your long captivity,” Laindawar began, stiffly.

“I am not captive, and never was!” Laerophen pinched his nose, and took a deep breath. “I have lived amongst them. I know them! By the stars, honeg nín, you attack Gimrís  with question after question as though it is her role in life to answer you? And you wonder why she snaps and growls and stalks away!”

“Then by all means, enlighten us as to their ways,” Thranduil said, before Laindwar could explode into furious debate.

“The Lady Gimrís is the _worst_ one to ask about her brother,” Laerophen said, and he launched into motion, stalking across the room and moving his hands in agitation. “These folk, they mock and tease easily: you must learn to find the laughter under the words. And do not talk of the curse of the line of Durin in their very halls! You know as well as I do that it has faded to naught with the stench of dragon and the loss of the Dwarf-ring. Yet still you would name a Dwarf greedy without ever having met him? I despair that I thought as you did, once.”

“Who would you suggest we speak to?” Thranduil said, cutting over the spluttering coming from Laindawar’s direction.

“You would do better to speak to her son, or to Glóin.” Laerophen then winced. “Well, when you can bear to be in the same room as him, and he you. Dwalin son of Fundin was his teacher, and the singer Barís  Crystaltongue was his sister’s dearest friend. He has called the Princess Dís ‘aunt’ since his young childhood, I understand. And most importantly, Mizim, his mother – she is a calmer soul than her husband, and a wise one. She has spoken to me of her son, and I deem that Gimli is a fit match for my brother.”

“A mother’s love may distort many a virtue,” Laindawar retorted.

“You just told me his own sister thought him a covetous thug: I would not trust my insight, if I were you,” Laerophen snapped.

“Peace, my sons,” Thranduil said, and he leaned forward. “Tell me what his mother said.”

Laerophen gave Laindawar a last cross glare, before he turned back to his father. “He is honest to a fault – often honest beyond the bounds of politeness,” he said. “He is brave, foolhardily so. He has a poet’s tongue, and loves to sing. He is gracious in both victory and defeat, though he is not overfond of losing – I understand he is fiercely competitive. His sense of humour tends to wordplay and jesting. And lastly, he is loyal beyond all sense.”

“Is he a fair warrior?” Laindawar demanded. His face was still mottled, his eyes flashing with resentment.

“He’s only the best warrior since Dwalin, dumbface,” came a small mutter from the door. It would have been inaudible to any but Elven ears.

Laerophen froze, his mouth hanging open.

“Who spies upon us?” Laindawar said, and he reached for his sword hanging at his side.

“Oh, Elbereth.” Laerophen closed his eyes for a moment. “Gimizh?”

There was a tiny squeak, and some shuffling from beyond the heavy door.

Thranduil stood in a flowing movement, crossing to the door with his robes sweeping behind him. He flung it open, and stared down with icy eyes. “Who is this?”

“Gimizh, what are you doing here?” Laerophen said wearily.

“Cleaning the doorknob,” Gimizh said, his small face defiant.

“An untruth,” Thranduil said, his voice low and silky.

“Your small shadow reappears,” Laindawar remarked to Laerophen, who shook his head.

“Were you looking for me?”

“I was cleaning the doorknob, and if a fellow overhears fings when he’s cleaning doorknobs, that’s not his fault,” Gimizh said to Thranduil, crossing his chubby little arms and tipping up his head. “You were takin’ too long,” he added to Laerophen. “There’s cake tonight: Barur’s started the pastry ovens again at last!”

“That sounds like a fine adventure, but you should not eavesdrop on private conversations,” Laerophen said, crossing to Gimizh and dropping to his haunches to put a gentle hand upon the Dwarfling’s shoulder. “Your mother shall be cross.”

“When is his mother not cross,” muttered Laindawar.

“You shouldn’t say nasty stuff about people either, but he does it lots,” Gimizh snapped back, jerking his head towards Laindawar. “First my uncle Gimli, and then my mum!”

“That is true,” Thranduil said. His eyebrow was ever so slightly lifted, giving him a faintly quizzical air. “Then you should apologise for eavesdropping, and my son shall apologise for his rudeness.”

“Fine,” Gimizh grumbled. “Sorry for accident’ly listening to things.”

Laindawar opened and shut his mouth, and then he inclined his head. “I am sorry for speaking ill of your family.”

“Pfft, you don’t know anything anyway,” Gimizh said, tossing his head. His curved braids bounced. “S’not your fault you’re so ignant.”

Laerophen frowned, and hazarded a guess. “Ignorant?”

“Means that he doesn’t know anything,” said Gimizh. Innocent helpfulness oozed from every pore.

“I…” Laindawar began, and then subsided with a sniff.

“Gimli is your uncle,” Thranduil said, the words slow and measured. “Child, are you close to him?”

Gimizh glanced at Laerophen, who squeezed his arm. “We seek to learn more of him,” he said. “My brother has become attached to him, you see, and we would know what manner of person he is.”

Gimizh looked horrified. “Your brother!?”

“No, my other brother,” Laerophen rushed to say, and Gimizh blew out a massive breath, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

Laindawar growled. Wordlessly, Thranduil passed him a goblet of wine.

“I forgot you had another brother,” Gimizh said. “Can I come in? The doorknob’s really clean now.”

“I am sure it is,” Thranduil murmured. “In you come, child.”

Gimizh scurried in and clung to Laerophen’s side. As the Elvenking turned and re-took his seat, the Dwarfling poked a small pink tongue out at Laindawar.

“Now that is rude,” Laerophen said, and prodded him gently.

“Then we’re even,” said Gimizh, with lofty dismissal.

Laindawar gripped his wine tightly, and tipped back half the glass.

Thranduil arranged his robe around his feet, and then studied Gimizh for a silent second. Then he said once more, “are you close to your uncle?”

“Yep,” said Gimizh. “Oooh, you’ve got grapes! Can I have some?”

“Would you please,” Laindawar said, stressing the ‘please’ with biting sarcasm, “tell us of him?”

“He’s big an’ strong and has a fluffy red beard,” Gimizh said, his eyes darting over to the bowl of grapes upon the table. “I got a doll of him.”

“Then you love him,” Thranduil said, his head tipping forward to eye the child intently.

Gimizh only rolled his eyes. His mouth was full as he spoke next. “He’s my uncle Gimli. He’s the best fighter in the whole mountain, and I’m not allowed to touch his things while he’s away. He tells good stories. Sometimes he chases me an’ Wee Thorin an’ Balinith through the Mountain, or plays hidey with us. I cut my shin on his axe that I accident’ly borrowed one time, an’ he was a bit mad, but he really wasn’t because Uncle Gimli dun get mad at me ever. He was only pretending because he was afraid. Mum does that too. I like his axes, an’ they were Grandpa’s. Uncle Gimli told me he would give them to me one day. But he also said that I shouldn’t take things that weren’t mine, an’ that I shouldn’t do everything that pops into my head without telling anyone. But since he went on a big important Quest without telling anyone, I think that’s a bit unfair. Adults are like that though.”

“I see,” Thranduil said, and his mouth twitched.

“He still calls me ‘pebble’ sometimes, which isn’t fair either since I’m a big dwarrow now,” Gimizh said, and shrugged a little.  Another grape disappeared with the swipe of a small slightly-grubby hand. “If he catches you when you’re playing hidey, he blows raspberries on your tummy to make you laugh. He knows lots of songs, and sometimes he makes them up on the spot! I’m gonna make up songs too. But Mum barks at us when I sing any of Uncle Gimli’s mining songs, because they have naughty things in them sometimes. Da only laughs until he chokes, but then, Da’s a miner too.”

“You… do? I mean, he is?”

Gimizh nodded importantly – and snatched up a grape. “S’what Uncle Gimli said to me once. He was a miner back in Ered Luin. I never been to Ered Luin, and Grandpa says it was hard there. Uncle Gimli doesn’t say much about it. I reckon it’s good we’re not there anymore, an’ Da can be a shopkeeper and Uncle Gimli can be a warrior now. I bet he’s killed a billionty orcs. Is your brother on the quest too??”

“Yes, that is where they met,” Laindawar said.

“Oh.” Gimizh screwed up his face as he chewed, and then swallowed. “Is he rude?”

“Ah…when it is warranted,” said Thranduil. His eyes were glassy.

“Mum’s rude to Uncle Gimli all the time, and he’s rude right back at her,” Gimizh said with a wicked little grin. His hand darted from the bowl to his pocket. “She calls Uncle Gimli a fathead and a troll, and he calls her a goblin and a prissy Elf! She’d blister my ears if I ever said that! They’re brother an’ sister, but I don’t got a brother or sister or sibling. I got Wee Thorin, but he can knock me on my backside so I don’t call him a fathead. But I seen Uncle Gimli punch another fellow right in the teeth – wham! Just like that! – for calling my Mum names. So I don’t think they’re really meaning those words at all: I think they mean something else. Something nicer.”

“You asked for this,” Laerophen murmured to Thranduil, who was starting to look a little fixed on the spot.

“You’re out of grapes,” added Gimizh.

…

“Gimrís tells me you have set your son to harassing her,” Dís said. Her jaw was set and hard, and her eyes were flat.

Víli could see the stiffness in her limbs which told of aching joints, the carefully-concealed tremor in her hands. She was so tired, he thought, and closed his eyes to master himself.

“Princess, a pleasure to see you again,” Thranduil said, and he rose in a smooth liquid movement and crossed to the sideboard. It should have looked ungainly for him to use furniture so laughably small, but he somehow managed to make it graceful. “Wine?”

“I am no longer a Princess,” Dís said. “And I would ask you not to ignore what I just said.”

“I have asked him to find out all he can about this Gimli,” Thranduil said, turning back to her. He had two glasses in his hands. “I apologise that he has antagonised the Lady.”

“I ask you to ask him to stop bothering her at work. She is a busy Dwarrow,” Dís said. “He does not endear his brother to her.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows rose slightly, as though he had not even considered that. “She would not treat Legolas poorly…”

“No more than Elves would treat Dwarves poorly,” Dís retorted, swift as a dagger in the side. “No more than an Elf would see a starving child and turn away.”

Thranduil regarded her in stony silence for a second. “You were that child.”

Her steely eyes narrowed. “As well you know.”

Thranduil held out the glass of wine to her, wordless. She glared at it for a moment, before taking it in one crook-fingered hand. Her breath was coming fast. “I’m one of the last ones left from that time,” she said then, and took a large gulp.

“I am not sorry that we did not attack the dragon,” Thranduil said, and his voice was strangely muted.

Dís looked up from her contemplation of her glass. “But you are sorry for other things, aren’t you?”

Thranduil did not answer. He took a small sip of his own glass, and his eyes did not leave hers.

She did not flinch from that unearthly, piercing gaze, and neither did she look away. “Silver and steel all through, my darling,” Víli murmured.

“Please take a seat,” Thranduil said eventually, and he gestured with his goblet towards the low couches. “You should not be…”

“Standing so long, at my age?” Dís finished for him, and her lip twitched. “No, perhaps not. I did not think you would understand that.”

“Perhaps I am learning.”

“Perhaps.” Dis’ look over the rim of her glass was measuring. Nevertheless, she slowly made her way to a chair and eased into it. “Well? I’m not going to be the only one sitting.”

Thranduil blinked at her bluntness, and Víli let out an involuntary snort. Then the Elvenking made his way to a couch, and folded himself upon it. His robes trailed upon the floor.

“Everything’s too small for you, eh?” Dís took a sip, and watched him as he watched her back. “Now that we can access the wood and open the quarries again, we’ll look into making some Elf-sized rooms. You can’t be comfortable.”

“Is this an attempt at shaming me for my own lack of hospitality?” Thranduil said, leaning forward. “I swear to you, it will not work.”

“I don’t expect you have enough compassion for dwarves in you to feel shame for how you have treated us,” Dís said calmly, and she took another sip. “What matters is that you’re learning. Maybe one day you will.”

“I am several millennia older than you.”

“Congratulations.”

Víli stuffed a hand into his mouth. “Oh, my lark, you wicked thing,” he sniggered.

“It has been suggested that I cannot change so drastically.” Thranduil took a careful sip of wine, and watched her some more. “What is your belief, First Advisor?”

She shrugged. “People change. I’m guessing that goes for Elves as well as Dwarves. Sometimes they change because they want to. Sometimes they’re changed whether they like it or not.”

“I find that simplistic.”

“Once, you looked upon me as a child and called me Princess,” she said, and tipped her head. Her voice was still perfectly level, and her gaze crackled in the air between them “Then you saw that child wandering homeless and starving, and turned away. Then you came to us with weapons in your hand, and made siege upon our home. Then you sent aid to our people when no other would. Then you fed us when we were starving. Now you greet me as ‘Princess’ once again, invite me into your rooms and offer me wine and a chair for my old bones.”

Thranduil considered that, and lifted his glass in wordless acceptance.

“Let me tell you a tale, Thranduil Oropherion,” she said, and leaned back in her chair. “I was a jeweller in Ered Luin. My hands shied from gold. I loved the touch of silver and moonstones, like shards of starlight made solid. Yet I worked in steel, for there was little joy in the making in that cold hard place, and my family needed to eat.

“One terrible day, I held a letter in my hand. It had been sent from my cousin Balin. It told me that my sons and brother were dead. I was the last. My entire family, wiped out, erased. My children slaughtered. My brother murdered. I was alone, and I was forgotten in my grief as our people struggled to live.

“Gimli came to me. Half a child still, his beard only just sprouting. I raged at him.” Her lips were tilted in a faint smile at the memory. “Oh, how I attacked him. That brave child stood his ground in the face of my howling anger and sorrow, and told me I was not alone. He held me as I wept.”

She put her glass upon the side-table, and stood with a soft grunt of effort, straightening her back. “He came back every day,” she added. “Every day.”

Thranduil was frowning slightly as he watched her leave.

…

Fíli watched Frodo pick his way over the stones of the white courtyard. Sitting upon the low ledge of the garden plot were Aragorn and Arwen, their hands clasped tightly. Arwen was singing beneath her breath, watching the blossom fall from the branches of the young tree.

Frodo moved with only the slightest hint of pain now, but he still looked very small and frail as he approached.

“I know what you have come to say, Frodo: you wish to return to your own home.” Aragorn said, and he looked up and smiled at Frodo.

Frodo looked torn. “I… yes. I miss it. I miss home, and Bag End. I miss the way things were.”

Aragorn’s smile faded a little. “Well, dearest friend, the tree grows best in the land of its sires; but for you in all the lands of the West there will ever be a welcome. And though your people have had little fame in the legends of the great, they will now have more renown than any wide realms that are no more.”

Frodo nodded, and then he said, “First I must go to Rivendell. For of all things and people in this world, I miss Bilbo. I was grieved when among all the household of Elrond I saw that he was not come.”

“Do you wonder at that, Ring-bearer?” said Arwen. Her eyes were very soft and powerful. “For you know the power of that thing which is now destroyed; and all that was done by that power is now passing away. But your kinsman possessed this thing longer than you. He is ancient in years now, according to his kind; and he awaits you, for he will not again make any long journey save one.”

He looked upon her with poorly-hidden worry. “You saw him last, how was he?”

She looked down. “Old. Tired.”

Fíli swore under his breath. Thorin would be concerned.

“Then I beg leave to depart soon,” said Frodo.

“You will not go alone.” Aragorn stood and clasped Frodo’s little shoulders. “For we shall ride with you far on the road, even as far as the country of Rohan. In three days now Éomer will return hither to bear Théoden back to rest in the Mark, and we shall ride with him to honour the fallen. But now before you go I will confirm the words that Faramir spoke to you, and you are made free for ever of the realm of Gondor; and all your companions likewise. And if there were any gifts that I could give to match with your deeds you should have them; but whatever you desire you shall take with you, and you shall ride in honour and arrayed as princes of the land.”

“I am not a prince,” Frodo said, alarmed. “I want that which any traveller wants: my home, and the path that leads to it.”

Arwen tilted her head, studying him. “Yet a gift I will give you. For I am the daughter of Elrond. I shall not go with him now when he departs to the Havens; for mine is the choice of Lúthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter. But in my stead you shall go, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed. But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven!”

She then took a white gem, like captured starfire looped in silver chains, from around her neck and laid it in Frodo’s hand. “I cannot accept this,” he breathed, staring down at it.

“You can and will,” she said, and kissed his brow. “When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid.”

Fíli breathed out slowly. “Thank you, Evenstar,” he murmured, and allowed the stars to take him away.

Three days later, Éomer returned. With him was his éored, leading a great white bier draped in the green-and-white of Rohan. That night, a feast was held in his honour and in memory of Théoden-king, and he stared about at the full pageantry of Gondor at the height of its beauty and formality. Folk in glittering mail, and the shining hall of the King arrayed in silver and decked with flowers. The Elf-lords fine and resplendent, Celeborn arrayed in silver, Glorfindel glowing like the sun and Elrond with his deep wise eyes. And ladies begowned and dazzling: There was his sister clad in white and gold, and she was laughing! Her hand was clasped with that of a lord of Gondor, and he wondered at that.

The elf Galadriel shone with some glory, an inner radiance that he could not quite make out, and he quailed from her eyes. There was another noblewoman, a dark-haired lady of Dol Amroth, who sent his mind swimming. And then the new Queen, tall and robed in silver and black, like the kindler of the stars herself.

He had to step outside for a while, lest he make a fool of himself before all the assembled nobles. There he found Gimli and Legolas huddled together in an alcove, their faces close, and he burst into laughter.

“I see others have made use of the crowd to slip away.”

“Aye, but not for lesser company,” Legolas said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Do I congratulate you, gentlemen?”

“You may,” Gimli conceded. And grinned up at him. “And you’d better, my friend!”

“Then all my good wishes and hopes go with you for all the days of your life,” Éomer said, bowing. “A stranger alliance I have never heard of, but in these days it seems that the strange is commonplace enough!”

“Pfft! And in strange times, strange friends give stranger blessings! Need I send for my axe?” Gimli laughed, squinting up at him and tipping his head.

“Perhaps,” Éomer said with a shrug, but he was smiling. “You shall judge, for there are certain rash words concerning the Lady in the Golden Wood that lie still between us. And now I have seen her with my own eyes.”

“Well, lord,” said Gimli, “and what say you now?”

“Alas!” said Éomer with mock-regret. “I will not say that she is the fairest lady that lives.”

“Then I must go for my axe,” said Gimli.

“But first I will plead this excuse,” said Éomer. “Had I seen her in other company, I would have said all that you could wish. But now I will put Queen Arwen Evenstar first, and I am ready to do battle on my own part with any who deny me. Shall I call for my sword?”

But his mind was filled with the sight of a woman clad in swan-blue, even as he said it.

“Nay, you are excused for my part, lord,” Gimli said. “You have chosen the Evening; but my heart is given to the Morning. And my heart forebodes that soon it will pass away for ever.” He looked sidelong at Legolas.

Legolas squeezed his hands. “Not so soon as that,” he murmured. “What would the dawn be without a morning star?”

Gimli then laughed again his deep, rolling laugh. “Ah, ghivashelê, yes, you must remind me, as I remind you. And Éomer, live content and under no threat of axes – for now!”

“Master Gimli, you saved my life,” Éomer said, shaking his head and chuckling. “Would you undo all that good work?”

“Depends on if you ever gift me with another horse.”

“Arod does not suit you?”

Legolas sniggered. “Oh, Gimli, you great soft fool. Éomer, he dotes upon that horse unlike anything I have ever seen, despite constantly avowing his distaste for him.”

Gimli’s face was half-indignant, half-amused. “I do not!”

“You do,” Legolas said fondly, and kissed the top of his head.

“And I think that is my cue to leave,” Éomer said, and he bowed once more, “since we hold no duel this evening.”

“Not one that you’re invited to, at any rate!” Gimli shouted at his retreating back, and Éomer laughed and waved his hand in farewell. Perhaps he could steal a few moment’s conversation with the swan-lady before it was time to dance.

…

It was odd, Thorin mused to himself, as he brushed out his beard and began tying it into a narrow plait. The routine he had taken such terrible pains to build - with its schedules and timetables and breaks for sleeping and eating and chores - was still holding, even now that all the urgency of the past month was gone. The network of relationships he had found himself a part of was still there, and most Dwarrows remained a part of the watch, a part of the detail. He was still surrounded by friends and family, despite the calm. It was as though he were not the only one to find meaning and purpose in their closeness and familiarity.

Odd but good, in its way.

“It’s getting longer,” came a voice from the door, and Thorin looked into the mirror to see Thráin’s reflection smiling back at him. “It looks good.”

“I have to concur,” said Bilbo, softly.

“Your shift’ll be starting soon?” Thráin crossed to him and picked up a brush. He had to reach up slightly to pull it through the top of Thorin’s hair, and he ducked his head a little to allow his father access. “Your grandmother will be pleased you took the time to groom this lot. Your mother will be less pleased that you chose this rather than eating.”

“I’ve time enough yet for a meal,” Thorin said, and his hand hovered over the little box of beads that sat upon the vanity, its lid inscribed with flowers and runes. “I’ll see her at the table.”

“Your brother has already been and gone, I should mention,” said Thráin, and he rested a hand upon Thorin’s head, questioning.

Thorin nodded.

With another small smile, Thráin began to part out the locks for the lineage braid. “He’s enjoying the time with Fíli, and he’s watching that Rohirrim girl and the Gondorian lad in every spare second. You’ve helped him so, Thorin.”

Thorin watched in the mirror as Thráin swiftly did up the braid at his temple, his fingers as nimble as his mother’s. “Eventually, I suppose.”

“You should step back and see the difference in him,” Thráin said, and he held out his hand for a bead. Thorin gave him the little steel one surmounted in moonflowers, and kept the ivy-wound one for his beard. “Remember how he was when you first arrived here? He hid his every feeling of fear and inadequacy behind smiles and jokes. Pushed himself so far, even back into battles, trying to be that which he is not. He’s so much prouder – so much calmer now. You’ve helped him so much.”

“He helped me first.”

“Not a competition, inùdoy.” Thráin finished off the braid, and let it swing. “Though I cannot fathom the differences in you sometimes, it is good to see that some things are not so changed. Still, allow a father some pride in his children, eh?”

“What of you?” Thorin turned to him, and met his eye. “Now that Dol Guldur is destroyed, how do you fare?”

Thráin gave a wry little chuckle. “Better. I’m doing far better, my boy. My nightmares do not stick to me like burrs to a goat anymore. The sight of that glade filled with wildflowers where it stood - that comes to me often and brings me peace. Come along, you’re presentable enough now, and you need to eat.”

“One moment,” said Thorin, and he raised his arms again and did in the bonding-braid at his crown. He did not tie it with a metal bead, but with a wooden one, and it bumped at his cheekbone every so often, smelling of warm wood resin and polish. “There.”

Thráin gave it a long glance, and then said, “For Bilbo?”

“Better late than never,” Thorin retorted, feeling strangely small.

“Hah. That could make a good title for our story, couldn’t it, my dear?” Bilbo murmured. “ _Better Late Than Never: A Tale of a Hobbit and a Dwarf._ ”

“True enough.” Thráin bumped their foreheads together, and then tugged an arm over Thorin’s shoulders to steer him from the room. “Come now.”

On their way to the dining-hall, they passed Thorin’s smithy door. Ori’s schedule, with all its crossings-out and smothered in a riot of different handwritings, still hung there. Thorin idly wondered if he should frame it.

Breakfast was quiet, warm and comfortable, a well-worn groove in which Thorin teased his youngest nephew, chatted amiably with Balin, dodged his grandmother’s ladle and laughed along with the others at Nori’s antics. Their thief had managed to get himself in hot water with Narvi and Haban, for some reason - there was apparently a wager and one of Narvi’s tools involved - and he was currently protesting total innocence. Not a single soul believed him. Haban had apparently declared vengeance, vowing to prove to him why she was known as ‘the best axe-dancer of her generation!’

The stars of Gimlîn-zâram were as cool and sweet as spring air, and Thorin entered them gratefully with Kíli by his side.

The day of departure had come at last, and a great company of Rohirrim, Elves and Men of Gondor made their way north out of the City. Some distance out upon the plain, Aragorn stopped and watched the pennants flap from atop the Tower of Ecthelion for a moment, and a small half-smile tugged at his lips. Then he turned away and led the party towards Rohan.

Amongst their number were a Wizard, a small party of Hobbits, and a Dwarf riding pillion with a wood-elf.

Gimli spent much time in conversation with the Lady Galadriel, speaking of his plans for both the Gates of Minas Tirith and for the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. As the party did not travel swiftly, Thorin was able to overhear a great deal of their talk. To his surprise, the Lady was absolutely engrossed in the discussion, and had much to say of crafting and the works of hands.

“That’s unexpected,” he murmured.

“…great work,” she was saying, her eyes thoughtful. “It will take many craftspeople many years to do as you imagine. Though I took you for a warrior, I must admit. I did not take you for a master of steel, my champion.”

“He shows some promise,” Thorin said, the corner of his mouth curving up. He did not mention some of the more disastrous early gaffes.

Gimli blinked, and then he grinned broadly. “Ah, but I have a hidden advantage, which you long ago made plain to me! My kinsman is back, Lady: the one whom I first saw clearly in your Mirror. I am no smith, that is true, but he has been instructing me.”

“Has he now?” said Legolas, pouncing upon the new information with a measure of glee. “Is this anything to do with your secret, meleth nín? Gimli leaves, my Lady, every morning. He returns with his beard full of the scents of fire and metal. He will not tell me anything!”

“Still not wearing the ring,” Kíli whispered. Thorin looked, and indeed, Legolas’ hand was still bare.

“Aye, it is a surprise for you, curious one! But you knew that much already!” Gimli laughed, and he squeezed Legolas’ waist. “Patience.”

“Never has a Dwarf been so aggravatingly opaque,” Legolas moaned.

“I’ll have to pass that on to Balin and Óin, they’ll be pleased,” Kíli remarked, smirking. Gimli snorted.

“Then you still hear your kinsfolk, do you?” Galadriel’s beautiful hair was tied back for riding, and she wore trousers and a loose tunic in the clear September sunshine.  She looked less the grand Lady and more like a young warrior, in that garb. “I did not expect that. I felt sure that the connection would break once the spell of the Mirror had passed, and the power of Nenya faded.”

“Nay, they’re all still hanging around,” said Gimli. “Idmi, Thorin! We go to Edoras, to lay Theoden to rest. From there, I will keep my promise and take Legolas to the Glittering Caves beneath the deep. And then we shall see what an Elf can make of the song of stone!”

“I could make a drum, possibly,” Legolas said, his face perfectly serious, “or perhaps a rattle…”

“Cheeky Elf.” Gimli squeezed his waist again. “You’ll get your revenge upon me soon enough: Fangorn is close at hand, after all!”

“You’ve not given him the ring, Gimli,” Thorin said, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you have doubts?”

“No, no doubts!” Gimli said at once. “Just… the time has not yet presented itself. The right time.”

“Gimli,” said Thorin, and he sighed. “There is no such thing as a ‘right time’. You may trust me on that.”

“It’s very unnerving when he answers the air, is it not?” Legolas asked the Lady, who was looking rather astounded. “I’ve had some time to grow used to it.”

“Who else knows?” she asked, after clearing her throat.

“Aragorn,” Gimli said, and snorted. “He thought I’d had too much sun.”

She smiled, and then it faded as her brows drew together in thought. “I do not know why you may still hear them,” she said, shaking her glorious head. “There is a force here I do not understand.”

“Your Gift?” whispered Kíli, and Thorin shrugged.

“Possibly. It does not explain how Gimli can hear the rest of us, however.”

“Perhaps we’ll never know.”

“Perhaps.” The thought did not disturb Thorin, as it once might have.

Kíli wrinkled his nose, and then he tipped his head up to look at the sky, blue for miles and miles around. “Well, it’s a nice day for a ride,” he said.

It was a leisurely journey. Thorin remained until luncheon, when he bid farewell to Kíli. After his visit to Bilbo in Rivendell (the old Hobbit was sleeping at his writing-desk), he spent some time at his forge, working beside his mother. She was making a new harp.

After dinner, he decided to pay a last call to Gimli. Clad only in his sleep clothes, he padded barefoot through the quiet, echoing Halls. The only sound was the whispering shift of his tread upon the stone.

When he emerged, blinking away the waters and shaking himself, it was to the sight of a large encampment. The tall tents most likely held Aragorn, the Hobbits, Eomer and the great ones of the Elves, but Thorin did not think, somehow, that Gimli would be among them.

Soon enough he saw them. Gimli and Legolas watched the stars together, lying upon the grass with their heads close. “That is the one we call ‘the Chisel,’ and there is the Helm of Azaghâl,” Gimli said, his finger tracing over the vast glittering sky.

“Don’t forget Durin’s Crown: you will see it to the East,” Thorin reminded him.

“Ach, of course – you can see Durin’s Crown there, the seven stars that hang above the Misty Mountains. Can you see them? They are the ones that reflect so perfectly in Kheled-zâram, where my great ancestor trod after he woke from his long sleep.”

Legolas watched Gimli’s face, the starlight flickering from his pale cheeks and brow. “I have all the stars I care to see right here,” he murmured.

Gimli’s flush was noticeable, even in the gloom. “What do your folk call them?”

Legolas smiled, and allowed Gimli his retreat. Settling his head comfortably upon Gimli’s shoulder, he lifted his eyes to the starry heavens and was silent for a moment, considering. “You know of Eärendil's lamp,” he said, and pointed up with a long forefinger. “But there you may see the constellations Wilwarin, Telumendil, Soronúmë, and Anarríma. They are ancient, set there by Elbereth herself before the waking of the Elves, a sign for us in the darkness. Ever since that primordial time we have turned to the stars for guidance.”

Gimli squinted at the one Legolas had called Telumendil. “We call that one Mahal’s Tackle.”

Legolas burst out laughing.

“It is Mahal’s _Hammer_ , Gimli,” sighed Thorin, amused despite himself.

“Oh come off it, Thorin, you know what people call it just as well as I,” Gimli said, his eyes shining with merriment. “Mahal’s Hammer it might be in official documents, but that isnae what it’s called in song and rhyme!”

Thorin shook his head. “Your father would be mortified.”

“My father’s the one that _taught_ me that.”

“Should have known.”

There was a pause, and Legolas asked, “King Thorin, have you any word on how our families fare? If you will share it, I would be grateful.”

Gimli’s lip tightened, and he curled his arm more closely around Legolas’ shoulders. “Would you be wroth if I told him, Thorin?”

“I’ll be wroth if you waste any more of your time giving him that ring,” Thorin told him, and he seated himself by their side. The shifting sounds of picketed horses and the occasional snore of the sleeping riders all around punctuated the peace of the moment. “But no, I’ve no objection. Does he know about the letters arriving?”

“Aye.”

“Good, then I needn’t tell you the whole tale.” Thorin stretched out his neck. “I ought to head back soon. I’ll fill you in, and then I’m for bed. And you ought to be as well!”

“Thank you, Lord.”

“My _name_ , if you please. Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu you may be, but I’m no father to you.”

“Sorry. Thorin. I forget sometimes.”

Legolas was looking at him quizzically.

“Ach, just a bit of chatter. My apologies âzyungelê.” Gimli stroked his shoulder with one broad thumb. “Thorin, anything since?”

“Not a great deal, no.” Thorin scratched at his cheek. “Legolas’ brothers are divided on the matter, however. The elder, Laindawar, has made it his mission to discover all there is to know about you.”

“Oh, mahumb.” Gimli’s eyes widened. “I sincerely hope he doesn’t speak to Dwalin, then. That could be embarrassing.”

“What?” Legolas prodded his side. “Some of us can only hear one side of this conversation!”

“Serves you right for gabbling in Elvish with Aragorn all the time,” Gimli said. “Your brothers don’t agree about us. The oldest one, Lain-?”

“Laindawar,” Legolas said, his voice breathless.

“He’s snooping around trying to gather dirt on me,” Gimli finished. And winced. “Urgh. Please let him never discover Nori’s Tavern.”

Thorin let out a soft huff of laughter. “Indeed. The younger, Laerophen, is firmly on your side. He has become a great friend to your nephew.”

“What! Truly?” Gimli sat up sharply, spilling Legolas upon the ground. “Well, there is a piece of news indeed! My fine Azaghîth, my wee badger, friends with Legolas’ brother!”

“Wait! Elaborate, please!” Legolas said, pushing himself up and blowing a lock of hair away from his face. “Do you mean Laerophen?”

“Aye, the middle one, right?” Gimli turned his amazed look upon the Elf, who nodded in equal astonishment. “Friends with our troublemaking little terror! There’s a shock and a half! Well, if there is but one Elf in the mountain who can see us as we are, then I am glad for it. Bless Gimizh’s merry little heart!”

“What of my father?” said Legolas after regaining his composure, and Thorin grimaced.

“He stays at the Mountain, even though the frosts have broken. Some have wondered why. Regarding your relationship, he will pass no comment. He holds to his previous statement: that he neither recognises nor consents to your union, and holds it to be unnatural and unbecoming of Legolas’ position. Yet there is some evidence that he is not as intransigent as all that.”

Legolas snorted indelicately. “Now, that is truly beyond belief.”

Gimli ran a wide brown hand over Legolas’ hair. “We’ll make him see, somehow,” he murmured.

“I wish I had your optimism,” said Legolas, and his sigh was bitter.

“Now, now, dear one,” Gimli said softly, and his hand slid to cup Legolas’ chin and lift it up. “You’re the one who has held out hope for us, all this time: I don’t mind carrying it a bit if you stumble.”

Legolas smiled, and kissed him. “All right.”

“What of Gimrís ? My mother?” Gimli paused. “My father?”

Thorin had turned his head away slightly: he had no wish to see Legolas’ fingers curling into the fine red waves of Gimli’s handsome beard, no matter how fond he was of both. He refocused on them as he turned his mind back to the matter at hand. “Your sister is ferociously busy,” he said. “She reminds me of Óin now and then, forever moving here and there with a task in her hands and medicines slipping from her pockets! She has developed a severe dislike of Laindawar, for he directed most of his impertinent questions at her.”

Gimli bit his lip. “Ooooh. And he’s still got all his limbs attached, yes?”

“Yes,” Thorin replied, “If only just. Your mother has taken it upon herself to attend to Laerophen’s education.”

Gimli relayed this to Legolas, who slumped and stared at Gimli. “This is all so hard to believe,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“What are we walking into,” Gimli muttered. Then he lifted his chin. “And Da?”

“Has absented himself for some time,” Thorin told him, with regret. “He will not even come to Council anymore.”

“Oh Durin’s beard, the Council, I’d forgotten all about the Council! Mahal only knows what the King thinks of this,” Gimli said, and his shoulders fell.

“Ah, there at least I have better news.” A swell of pride filled his chest. “The King Stonehelm finds it both hilarious and bemusing, but he has no anger towards either of you, and as the King decides so the rest of the Council have followed suit. They have all fallen into line behind my sister. She will hear nothing against you, nor against Legolas. At all.”

“Oh, may your beard grow ever longer, Aunt Dís,” Gimli said explosively, and he leaned back against Legolas. Looking up at the Elf, he said, “well, we’ve quite the hornet’s nest waiting for us.”

“And we stuck our faces right into it with those letters of ours,” Legolas said, his expression rueful.

“You could not have known,” Thorin said. “Trying something that doesn’t quite work is better than not trying at all, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Aye, there’s wisdom in what you say.” Suddenly, Gimli grinned. “Looks like I get to fight a dragon or two after all, doesn’t it?”

...

Arrayed in their finest clothes, weapons gleaming in the sunlight, the people gathered at the Barrowfields of Edoras. A stone tomb had been raised there, the eighth upon that side of the field. Gimli had loaned the strength of his arms to it, and it would stand until the end of days.

As the door was sealed, Éowyn lifted her face and began to sing.

_Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day’s rising_  
_he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing._  
_Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;_  
_over death, over dread, over doom lifted_  
_out of loss, out of life, unto long glory._

Merry stood to one side, his face wet with tears. Pippin clutched his hand, and for once his tongue was still.

“Théoden King, Théoden King! Farewell! As a father you were to me. for a little while,” Merry said softly, as the final stone was placed by Éomer himself. “Farewell!”

Then the riders came forward and took off their fine tunics, and covered the tomb in earth. Gimli squeezed Legolas’ hand, and strode forward to help as he could, stripping off his coat and jerkin and kneeling down beside the Men. Legolas watched him avidly, and Aragorn hid a smile.

“Merry,” said Éowyn softly, coming to where he stood.

He tipped his head up to her, his lip trembling. Without a word he rushed forward and clung around her waist. She laid a gentle hand upon his head, and her own tears rolled even as she spoke.

“He was the best of fathers,” she whispered.

At last the barrow was covered. Gandalf stood forward and lifted his staff, and white flowers began to peep from under the churned ground, covering the mound. “May you sleep easily, my friend,” he was heard to murmur. The Elves watched with solemn eyes.

The Golden Hall of Meduseld was arrayed in light, and the celebrations there were as rowdy as Thorin remembered. He squinted through the haze of smoke from the floor-pit, and could make out Éowyn handing her brother a cup. Éomer kissed his sister’s brow and tugged her close as he raised it.

“Now, to hear the names of the Kings!” cried a minstrel, and then they were recited: all the names of the Lords of the Mark in their order, from Eorl the Young all the way to Théoden the Old. And upon Théoden’s name, Éomer drained his cup.

Éowyn smiled at him and said, “Hail Éomer, King of Rohan!”

“Oh, this cannot only be about myself, sister,” he said, a glint in his eye. “For I am not the hero of this hour, and nor is our uncle…”

“Éomer, don’t you dare…” she began, but he was already striding forth, his cup held high.

“Fill this, if you would! Good people, I ask that you recharge your cups! For this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father of Éowyn my sister. My brave and valiant sister!” Here he stamped his foot and lifted his voice to a carrying shout, and all assembled roared in answer.

Éowyn flushed, and stood tall.

“This is what it is to be seen at last, my Lady,” rumbled Gimli under his breath. Thorin glanced back at him, and smiled. Legolas had draped himself over Gimli’s broad shoulders like a determined cloak, his cheek pressed upon Gimli’s hair. “Now all the freedom in the world may be yours.”

Éomer waited until the mighty cheer had settled before he went on. “Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.”

So Faramir was pushed forward from the crowd by his men, who were laughing, and he took Éowyn’s hand. She lowered her eyes, the embarrassed flush still riding her cheeks, but when she raised them again they were pleased, and happy. Faramir, for his part, looked as though he might explode with joy. As the match was set, the hall erupted once again.

“One day,” Legolas whispered into Gimli’s blunt ear, “we shall stand before our Lords and place our hands in each other’s, and plight our troth. And they shall cheer.”

“Aye, they will.” Gimli took a sip of his cup, and swallowed hard. “I hope they will.”

“Thus,” shouted Éomer over the din, “is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice! For my sister is the most deserving of happiness!”

Éowyn gave her brother a dirty look as the cheers renewed themselves, her name shouted to the rafters over and over. He grinned back, unrepentant.

“No niggard are you, Éomer,” said Aragorn, “to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!”

Éomer snorted loudly. “As though I had any say in it. Éowyn’s choices are her own, at long last.”

Éowyn looked in the eyes of Aragorn, as though she were letting go of a thought that had long troubled her. After a brief while she said: “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!”

Aragorn’s face softened. “I have wished you joy ever since first I saw you. It heals my heart to see you now in bliss. Be well, Éowyn.”

“Right! That’s enough of that then. Let’s have some music!” said Glorfindel loudly. Elrond sighed.

“I like him,” said Pippin, grinning.

...

Some weeks passed. Dáin hovered over Erebor nearly as often as Víli did, watching his son and Bomfrís and nearly glowing with pride. “She’s a damn fine girl, d’know that?” he could be heard to say to Balin, who nodded with good humour. “Never stops moving, that raven on her shoulder. She’s corralled all the archers into helping out with the Dalefolk’s restorations. Should be that she’s taking more rest though: that child’s not a small one and it grows fast, and she gets tired now. But damn if she doesn’t keep going!”

“She still hasn’t married him, has she?” Balin asked. “The Council won’t like that.”

“Nope,” Dáin rubbed his hands together with some glee, the piglet on his lap jostling. “Ach, it does ‘em good to be thwarted now and then. And frankly, I don’t think she _wants_ to marry him. She loves my lad with everything in her, sure enough, but she doesn’t want a crown and she’s made everyone know it.”

“Won’t marry him!” Balin’s mouth dropped open, and he began to splutter. “But… but…!”

“Now, don’t get yourself tied up in knots, my Seneschal friend,” Dáin beamed. “They’re married in all but name, ain’t they?”

“How would the records-keepers show that? Why not?”

Dáin slapped his knees, and grinned at thin air. “Said she’s Bomfrís, the daughter of a tanner and cook, and that’s how she’ll live and that’s how she’ll stay. They can call her Lady, if they like. That’s a great concession, coming from her! But they’ll never call her Queen, she vows.”

Balin blew out a huge breath, and sat back. “The child, then... won’t they be…”

“Aye, they sure will!” Dáin guffawed. “Whomever the next ruler of Erebor is, they won’t be a Thorinul. They’ll be a Bomfrísul!”

Balin gaped. “Hrera’s going to have apoplexy.”

“I’m going to what?”

Balin closed his eyes. “Oh, Maker save me.”

Dáin explained it – in great detail and with great relish. When he had finished Balin braced himself for the inevitable cascade of terrible sarcasm, but oddly enough Hrera simply nodded in stern approval, and said, “good girl. That shows excellent Broadbeam sense, that does. It’s about time one of that lot had some.”

When Balin opened his eyes, Dáin was patting his piglet and giving him a smug look that needed no words.

“Oh shut up, your Majesty,” he snapped, and buried his face in his beard.

...

“Watch your step here,” said Gimli, pulling Legolas forward with both his hands.

“I cannot watch a single thing, meleth, as well you are aware,” said Legolas tartly. All his Elven grace had deserted him in the utter darkness, and he was trying hard to breathe. “I cannot understand how I am to see the beauty of these caverns when I cannot so much as see the shine of your eyes, not two feet before me!”

“Soon, love. Soon I will have the torch lit. But where the path grows narrow we would not be able to carry it without scorching ourselves,” said Gimli, apology in his deep tones. “I’m sorry. Are you well enough? We can go back.”

“We struck our bargain and I will see it through,” Legolas said, firming his jaw stubbornly and clutching at Gimli’s hands. “I will have my revenge when every tree-root in Fangorn seeks to trip you.”

Gimli laughed. “Aye, and you will see me stumble and curse, I promise you. Nearly there. The passage grows tight in ten yards or so: we must crawl for a short while.”

“Crawl!” Legolas was aghast. “Is this normal for Dwarves? Did I speak truer than I knew when I called you a mole?”

“Normal enough for any who divine caves, saucy Elf. I’ve my journeymanship in mining, though I wouldn’t call myself an expert, and I’ve wriggled through many a tunnel in my youth. So perhaps mole isn’t so far from the truth of it: they do have rather impressive claws and make a mighty digging, after all!”

“You call yourself an expert in nothing but fighting, Gimli,” Legolas sighed.

“On your belly here, Legolas. Not for long.”

“Shame,” Legolas said, all innocence, and listened to Gimli’s abashed spluttering with delight. Oh but what a joy it was to tease and taunt with desire in mind!

He shuffled through the narrow tunnel behind Gimli’s boots, keeping his breaths short and shallow. The air was not dank and befouled, as in Moria, and nor was it freezing as a tomb like the tunnels beneath the Dwimorberg. It was cool but musty: a room that had spent too long unopened, waiting to be lived in once more. Legolas found that the weight of the White Mountains above him did not fill him with fear, but a sense of being harboured and protected from the wild moor winds beyond.

What could be made of this place, he wondered idly, edging forward on elbows and knees? A better front-door, most certainly. One that would not leave him dripping in moss and cave-water!

“Nearly there, my One,” Gimli huffed. “And then you shall see!”

“I would welcome seeing anything at all, right now,” he shot back.

“Ah, the legendary patience of the Elves!” Gimli chuckled, a little out of breath. “Here, I have reached the first cave. You can stand without cracking your lovely head, Ghivashelê.”

Gratefully Legolas hauled himself out of the mouth of the low tunnel, and stretched out his arms. The echoes around him told of a spacious cavern near at hand, of that much he was sure; and there was the crystalline sound of falling water somewhere close by, like tinkling glass. “A large cave,” he said, to hear his voice bouncing back to them, magnified and multiplied by the distant stone.

“Aye, and it sings like a choir, does it not?” Gimli grunted, stretching, and then the rattle of his tinderbox could be heard. “Here, hold the torch for me, if you would?”

Legolas felt out blindly, and Gimli’s hand caught his and squeezed. “I can see you,” he murmured. “Don’t be afeared. I’ll have this lit in a trice.”

“I’m not afraid.” And Legolas was surprised to find that he truly wasn’t. This place felt welcoming to him, despite the oddness and the indignity of their entrance. “I think this Mountain likes me. Us. I think it likes us being here.”

“Aye?” The whisk of flint then hissed around the air as Gimli struck a few first sparks. “Considering that your experience with the great mountains has heretofore been Caradhras alone, I feel that there is most definitely room for improvement.”

“I cannot say how welcoming it might have felt without you by my side, to lead my steps,” Legolas said. Gimli’s face lit up in flashes as the flint caught the stone, his eyes made to glow like black rubies. The tinder caught, and Gimli held it to the torch that Legolas carried.

“Wait a moment, for your eyes,” Gimli said quietly. “Let it catch.”

Legolas blinked, and the odd fire-shapes pressed upon his retinas slowly faded. “My eyes are fine, meleth nín,” he said, and reached out to stroke back a lock of Gimli’s hair that had come loose through their crawl. “I must do your braids again.”

“First, you have a wonder to see,” Gimli promised him.

“I already see a wonder,” Legolas said, if only to watch Gimli’s mouth twitch into a pleased and bashful smile.

“You’ve no need to flatter what is already yours, Legolas. Come, raise your torch and follow me! The cave turns, and then opens out. Those were the echoes you heard.”

Gimli turned and trotted forward. The path was uneven and pitted, sculpted by the unknown hands of time, and Legolas followed with cautious feet. Gimli did not pause but stepped without hesitation, his heavy boots unerringly finding the best places to land.

“Yes; here,” he said eventually, and ushered Legolas before him. “Remember to keep that torch high!”

“I would not drop it, what do you take me-” And then Legolas had no words, no words at all.

Before him was an immense expanse unlike any he had ever seen, filled with pillars that twisted like trees and glistened like dew. The columns stretched from the floor to the vast ceiling high above; there stone draped and billowed like the sails of mighty ships. A fall of water trailed with silver fingers down one entire wall, curtaining it in mirrored glass. A lake pooled at its feet, lapping gently, and jewels winked in its depths.

Legolas’ breath was trapped in his chest, and he lifted his torch higher. The vaulted roof was scattered with bright crystals of all sizes and colours, and they caught his flickering light deep in their hearts and made it blaze like the stars. The stone pinnacles and columns were carved into sensuous shapes, of rose and gold and marble all intermingled. They stood like ancient trees, caught by an ancient wind, forever leaning in their last pose.

“Gimli,” he whispered. “Oh _Gimli_ …”

“Watch this,” said Gimli, his eyes blazing as gloriously as any gem. And he took a pebble and gauged the distance of the cavern, gazing out over the small lake. Then he threw it into the water.

The stars beneath the earth danced, catching the light reflected from the surface of the lake and playing with it, toying with it as a kitten would a piece of string. The gems under the water glittered as the ripples moved out in circles: the roof dazzled Legolas’ eyes, and he had to gasp and gasp again.

“This place was carved by the water,” Gimli murmured. His voice shimmered back from every surface, rumbling like the very soul of the earth. “Each winter the snows melt, and that little fall becomes a flood. I was fortunate to miss the thaw, or my escape from the Deeping Coombe could have been a trifle more damp than I’d planned.”

“And what will you do here?” Legolas spun on the spot, and rainbows of colour burst in every direction, their haloes framing each tiny crystal droplet of water, glowing deep and bold around the piercing wink of the gemstones. “Would you tame the river?”

“Why, nothing and by no means,” Gimli laughed, and the earth laughed with him. “Mar this beauty? No, this room would stay as it is. We might divert some of the snow-waters in springtime, for other works, but surely not all. This lake is too precious to destroy.”

“Good,” Legolas breathed. He reached out, as though to stroke the walls.

“Ah, no!” Gimli caught his hand. “No, my darling Elf, these should not be touched. The minerals here do not long withstand the oils of our skin, and would be damaged by over-handling. They are remarkable both for their longevity and their fragility.”

“Oh.” Legolas could not help but be reminded of the fleeting beauty of a flower-petal: both age-old and delicate.

“Listen,” said Gimli, and he squeezed Legolas’ hand. “Can you hear it?”

The sputtering of the torch seemed rather too loud to Legolas, so he wedged it between a fissure in the rock and stepped forward with empty hands. He felt untethered without it, weightless and cradled in these starry arms of stone. His eyes half-lidded as he strained his ears. The echoes of falling water came back to him, and he shook his head. “I can only hear the echoes…”

“Aye, the echoes are how we are first taught,” Gimli said, and he tipped his head back to look up at Legolas. “To the echoes, then.”

Legolas gazed down at him, a Dwarf ringed in blazing, dancing light with his hair tumbling over his forehead, even as he listened again.

“Even closer, âzyungelê,” said Gimli, nearly too quiet to hear at all. His voice was the subterranean shift of continents; the slow slide of molten rock underground. His eyes were brighter than any jewel.

There was a low, deep pulse. “I can hear your heartbeat,” he said, matching Gimli’s hushed tone. He feared to make more sound; this cave had a breathless, timeless air, a sense of the unknowable and sacred about it, and Legolas was struck to the soul.

“Does it say, ‘Legolas, Legolas, Legolas’?” asked Gimli, his teeth flashing white as he grinned.

“It says, ‘beer, beer, beer’,” Legolas retorted, feeling devilish.

“Ah! My one true love!” Gimli laughed under his breath. “Come foolishness aside, you know it beats for you. Can you find where its echo finishes, where the silence begins? Listen!”

Legolas listened.

There was indeed something, between the slow even thump of Gimli’s great heart – an echo that was not an echo – an _answer_. Slower and graver and older even than the songs of ancient roots it was, faint and yet ever-present in everything. Legolas felt sure that this strange, profound rhythm could be felt all the world over.

“I hear it,” he mouthed, and his knees were weak.

“Mahal sang of stone,” said Gimli, and he kissed the back of Legolas’ hand. His beard was a soft, delicious scratch. “In the void, before Elf or Dwarf or even earth came to be. He sang of stone. Now you hear the beat he used.”

“Gimli.” Legolas could not stand longer, and he dropped to his knees to bury his face into Gimli’s barrel chest. “Oh, Gimli, this is a wonder too deep for me…!”

“I do not think so, my Elf.” Gimli pushed a hand through his hair, the strands slipping between his fingers. “Not if you can hear it.”

“I will teach you to hear the singing of the leaves, the drinking of earth,” he rasped, his cheek pressed hard against Gimli’s leather jerkin. “I cannot begin to repay you for what you have given me here.”

“Daft Elf, this needs no answer.” He felt a kiss laid upon the top of his head, belying Gimli’s gruff words. “You are beloved of a Dwarf now, and this is what we are. I would be remiss indeed if I never told you.”

“Sansûkhâl,” Legolas whispered against his chest, and kissed it just over that gentle, brave, beating heart. “I have no such secrets as these, I have no wondrous gifts to give…”

  
  
Gimli and Legolas in the Glittering Caves, by [Iraya](iraya.tumblr.com)  


“You are gift enough, to me and to the world.” Gimli said tenderly, and his hand smoothed around Legolas’ head to cup his cheek. “Never doubt that. I have barely even begun to discover what a wonder you are.”

Upon his knees, they were nearly of a height: Gimli for once a little taller than Legolas. As it was, Legolas could stretch forth and kiss Gimli easily, his neck craning forward to catch his lips.

He could not say how long they kissed, but he did know that the stars danced.

“Mm, speaking of gifts,” Gimli said, and he gave Legolas a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. His moustache was springy and luxurious, a sweet counterpoint to the softness of his lips. Legolas plastered himself against that solid stout body, chasing after that clever mouth and its silver tongue, his arms curling around Gimli’s thick neck. “Now, insatiable one! I have another present yet to give you. But,” here Gimli looked rather shy, “I cannot claim it has the value of the first two.”

“Am I to discover the fruit of all your secrecy at last?” Legolas asked, and he licked a quick stripe along the bare patch beneath Gimli’s ear. He tasted of sweat and earth, leather and living blood and flesh, not of stone.  Gimli shuddered, lips parting.

“Now, stop that, or you’ll be getting an entirely different sort of gift!”

“What sort of incentive to stop is _that_?”

“And they call Dwarves the greedy ones.” Gimli kissed him quiet, and that took some time. Legolas lost himself again, and the stars swirled in delight all around. “That will hold you! Now, where is it…” He began to pat down his pockets, and then drew something forth. “Right.”

Legolas sat back upon his feet as Gimli hemmed and huffed in a most Dwarvish manner for a second or two, his chin pressed against his chest and his cheeks flaming. “Legolas,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Um. When we plight ourselves, we know it is to one only, and I wasn’t… well, I am no jeweller, but…”

“Gimli,” said Legolas gently. “I love you, elen nín.”

He brightened, and stood up straighter. “And I you.”

“Calm down, mir nín. You have made me something? Something to symbolise our bond? I love it already.”

Gimli looked a trifle outraged. “You haven’t even seen it!”

Legolas beamed at him.

“All right, all…” Gimli shook himself a little, and then thrust out one of his massive hands, his fingers pinched around something that glittered in the reflected light of the jewelled cavern. “Here.”

Legolas ignored his own trembling as he took it in careful fingers. “Oh, meleth.”

“It’s… it’s my old hair-bead, the one you kept.” Gimli shrugged with one shoulder, and smiled nervously. He had shown no fear before Wargs, Nazgul and the full might of Mordor, thought Legolas in wonder, turning the ring over and over in his hands.

“It’s beautiful,” he said eventually. “I told you I loved it.”

Gimli shifted between his feet, biting at his kiss-swollen lip. “Does it fit?”

“Put it on me,” Legolas said, and held out his bow-hand. “Ah! Yes it does, and perfectly! You have a good eye. And you call yourself no smith nor jeweller!”

“I’ve been getting some lessons,” Gimli said, staring at the ring upon Legolas’ long finger with something approaching awe. “At my age too! But I find every single training mishap worth it, in this moment.”

The ring was covered in close raised patterns: Gimli’s own sigil intertwined with leaves and flowers. The weight of it was strange and unfamiliar upon Legolas’ hand, but he used it to thread his fingers through Gimli’s beard and tug him closer. “Well, my Lord of Glittering Caves,” he breathed, “since you have satisfied your ways of bonding, let us at last satisfy mine.”

Gimli’s eyes widened. “Legolas, are you sure?”

For answer, Legolas only pulled Gimli full-length against him and covered his mouth again, pulling him to the jewel-covered floor.

The beat of the earth sang in time with his heart, and the stars glittered for joy above him.

…

Once Gimli and Legolas left for the Glittering Caves, Thorin left them alone out of respect.

(Respect, and an earnest desire not to see anything… intimate.)

They returned after only a matter of days, Gimli’s arm wrapped around Legolas’ waist. Thorin could only laugh at the picture they made together. They were so unlike, yet they seemed so natural together. Who would ever have dreamed it?

“You look happy,” said Bilbo.

“I am,” he replied, and fingered the bead in his short, narrow beard. “I am, Idùzhibuh.”

Bilbo turned back to the sight of Gimli and Legolas embracing Aragorn, and the chattering of the Hobbits all around them. “It suits you,” he said.

Thorin glanced at him side-long. There was a cresting tide of pink upon his neck, and his mouth was curled up pensively. “And you.”

Legolas was wearing the ring upon his finger, and there was a new shine in his eyes as he spoke gaily with Pippin and Sam. “No, no, I have not the tongue to put words to them!” he was saying. “They were everything Gimli had promised, and more. Like a blanket of stars, like a coral forest beneath the waves, and more! But I cannot do them justice in the slightest. Only Gimli can find fit words for them. And never before has a Dwarf claimed a victory over an Elf in a contest of words!”

“I find your tongue quite up to the task,” Gimli murmured.

Sam went purple.

“Behave yourself, my husband,” said Legolas, his lips twitching. “Lest Sam here have a conniption! As to my tongue, well, let us go on to Fangorn, and set the matter straight!”

“I may not take my axe into that wood,” sighed Gimli. “I shall miss it! But then, there is benefit enough to pacify me, I suppose.”

“Hang on a mo, back up a bit – husbands?” said Pippin sharply.

Legolas beamed, open and carefree and as shameless in his joy as ever. Thorin sent his star a quick, searching look. Gimli only laughed and picked up Legolas’ hand, kissing the back and chafing it in his own broad, brown fingers. “Well, in one sense,” he said. “My people require a bit more in the way of formality than Legolas’ folk do!”

“Thranduil is going to murder him,” said Bilbo, sounding rather impressed.

  
  
Gimli and Legolas, by [Ursubs](ursubs.tumblr.com)  


“Why, that’s lovely!” said Sam, still very bright about the cheeks and collar, but he sniffed and added, “you should have let me cook you a wedding feast. Ain’t a proper wedding without a feast.”

Gimli sent a meaningful look up at Legolas, who tutted. “Yes, yes, you did warn me,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m appalled,” announced Pippin. “You disregarded all my very good advice, and cheated us out of another party.”

“We’ll have to have two now, to make up for it,” said Merry.

Aragorn’s eyes as they rested upon the pair were very sober and deep. “May you have every joy together,” he said, and Gimli bowed his head, even as Legolas gave that odd hand-upon-heart gesture of the Elves.

“What’s that upon your finger, Legolas?” said Frodo, his voice a little hesitant. Legolas glanced down at his outstretched hand, and then held it up high for the others to see.

“Gimli made it,” he explained. “He calls himself a poor smith, naught but a warrior, but see what he can make from a scrap of old gold and a half-formed thought? Meleth, you are a marvel! He made it in Minas Tirith for me. That’s where he has been hiding all these mornings!”

“Ach, I had help,” Gimli mumbled, pleased and embarrassed.

“You found the right time,” said Thorin, trying very hard not to beam like a sun-addled fool. The ring was beautiful, and despite all Gimli’s fears it appeared to fit perfectly upon Legolas’ hand.

“Nay, time was not the issue. Call it…” Gimli looked up at the sky, as though speaking to himself, “Call it rather the right _place_.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Frodo. It seemed to Thorin that he had to steel himself to look upon it. “The flowers, especially.”

“Mister Frodo?” Sam said, very quietly.

Frodo shook his head. “I’m all right, Sam. It’s… helping, I think. See, it looks nothing like it.”

“What’s been happening while we were gone?” Gimli asked, rather diplomatically changing the subject, Thorin thought.

“Making preparations to go,” sighed Merry. “I’ve no wish to say goodbye to our Fellowship just yet. We’re all together still, and I don’t want it to end. But on we must go, I suppose!”

“I’ll be right glad to get home, I’m sure my garden’s in a state,” Sam said, shaking his head. “And it's harvest time an’ all!”

“That’s a pretty thing on your hip there,” said Legolas, nodding at the little green-and-silver horn looped upon Merry’s belt. Merry peered down at it as though he had forgotten it was there.

“Ah, well, I couldn’t really refuse them, could I?” he said. “They were so eager to send me off with something – Éowyn and Éomer, that is – and I’d already said no to all their other presents, so I had to accept this one. Isn’t it nice? It has some special magic on it, apparently: He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him.”

“And I’m not surprised, for that’s Dwarf-work!” Gimli exclaimed. “How did it come here, I wonder!”

“It was an heirloom of Rohan, Éowyn said,” replied Merry, handing it over so that Gimli could look. “Eorl the Young apparently brought it out of the North: a relic from a dragon’s hoard, she said. A worm called Scatha.”

Gimli looked up, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Scatha! Well, there’s some ancient history indeed. A beautiful piece, Master Merry, and I can’t think of better hands in which to place it, and no Dwarf would argue with me.”

Bilbo was watching Thorin’s face with some suspicion. “There’s a story behind that, isn’t there,” he said. It was not a question. “Probably a sad one.”

Thorin took a breath. “Aye. Those ancient Men of Éothéod – they claimed the hoard of Scatha for their own, by virtue of having slain the long-worm. The Dwarves of the Grey Mountains, whose gold it was? Did not agree. The dragonslayer sent them the Dragon’s teeth, telling them that those were the only jewels they deserved.”

Bilbo winced. “That appears to be a theme with your people, doesn’t it.”

“And one that sorely needs changing, in my opinion,” Thorin agreed. “Still, there are no more great dragons in the world. So there, at least, we can rest easily.”

“Thank heavens.” Bilbo pursed his lips. “And you don’t mind Merry holding onto that horn?”

“Not in the slightest,” Thorin said. “As Gimli said, what better bearer could it have?”

“True.” Bilbo then let his gaze rest upon Frodo, who was quiet and still as he fingered the jewel clasped around his throat. “He looks better, don’t you think?”

“He does indeed.” Thorin stepped close, and Bilbo tilted his head slightly.

If they held very still, it was almost as if he were laying it upon Thorin’s shoulder.

…

Two days later they rode from Helms Deep to Isengard. The place was unrecognisable, and Ori shivered a little when he saw the Ents standing here and there, tending to the orchards and groves that filled the basin walls.

“Nahùba Ori,” said Bifur, encouragingly.

“Oh, stop hovering,” Ori sniffed a little, but he pushed forward nevertheless and strode out behind the Fellowship and their retinue. “Oooh! It’s a lake!”

“It was a lake before,” Bifur said, confused, and he pushed through all the assembled folk and horses to stand where Ori was.

Ori shook his head, beads bouncing. “No, it was a sea before. It’s a proper lake now! Fed by a stream and everything!”

It was true. The first rush of the breaking dam had washed the bowl of Isen clean, and then receded. Now a clear sparkling lake filled its centre. The tower of Orthanc rose out of it, and the black spikes at its peak were reflected in the pool. Small fish could be seen darting here and there in its waters. Its edges were bordered by trees, standing like sentinels, their boughs heavy with late fruit.

Gandalf brought Shadowfax to a halt at the edge of the lake, and presently there came a great “Hoom, hoom!”

“Oh dear,” Ori said, and tugged his scarf up over his mouth so that only his eyes could be seen peering over the top.

Bifur wrapped an arm around him and tugged him close to his chest. “Don’t mind if I hover, do you?”

Ori did not answer, but pinched his arm rather sharply. Bifur chuckled.

“Young Master Gandalf!” Treebeard boomed, striding forward from a stand of flowering apple trees. “I knew you were coming, but I was away at work up in the valley, and it does not do to rush these things, barum! Still, I may bid you welcome now to the Treegarth of Isengard.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Gandalf said, and he waved a hand at the amazing transformation. “What you have wrought is nothing short of miraculous.”

“Hmm, yes. But you have not been idle either, I hear.” Treebeard leaned forward, his knotted brows tangling together as he peered at the Wizard. “And what I hear is very good. Yes, very good. Have you come to see our work?”

“Yes, and to see your prisoner,” said Gandalf, wheeling Shadowfax to look up at the great black spike looming from crystal-clear waters. “Has he given you any trouble?”

“Hoom, hum! Well,” Treebeard said, standing all at once and twisting his long twiggy fingers into his beard. Slowly (as though he would ever do it _quickly_ ) he began to tell them the tale.

“Let him go?!” Ori gasped. “But why?”

“Pity,” sighed Bifur. “It is a good quality to have, but I can’t help but feel it was misplaced here.”

“Trouble’s going to come of that, I’m sure of it,” said Ori glumly. Gandalf’s eyes flickered to him as he spoke, and the Wizard seemed to concur in wordless sorrow.

“How much worse must it be for him, I wonder,” said Bifur, softly. “Gandalf, gamil bâhûn, birashagimi.”

Gandalf nodded, ever so slightly. His deep and ancient eyes closed for a moment, before he pulled himself together and smiled upon Treebeard. “Then let us see your work, my friend, and talk of the future.”

“Hmm, hoom! Don’t be hasty! The future will wait a time. First, let me farewell these great ones you have with you, for it is long ages since I have hosted such in my woods.”

Treebeard bowed three times slowly and with great reverence to Celeborn and Galadriel. “It is long, long since we met by stock or by stone, A vanimar, vanimálion nostari!” he said. “It is sad that we should meet only thus at the ending. For the world is changing: I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, and I smell it in the air. I do not think we shall meet again.”

Celeborn pressed a hand to his heart. “I do not know, Eldest,” he murmured.

Galadriel then spoke, but she was not looking at Treebeard; her eyes seemed to pierce straight through the giant Ent, fixed upon some distant maybe. “Not in Middle-earth, nor until the lands that lie under the wave are lifted up again. Then in the willow-meads of Tasarinan we may meet in the Spring. Farewell!”

Treebeard sighed like the wind rushing through branches. Creaking as he turned away, he addressed Merry and Pippin directly. “Well, my merry folk,” he said, “will you drink another draught with me before you go?”

“Will we!” cried Pippin eagerly. “I’m going to beat the Bullroarer at this rate!”

“I’m still the taller one,” Merry grumbled, but he was clambering from Stybba’s back as he spoke. “Treebeard, we’d love to.”

“We’ll be leaving from here as well, laddie,” said Gimli to Aragorn, who bent his head.

“Fangorn awaits, meleth nín,” Legolas said, and he laughed at the rueful face Gimli pulled in response.

“Then here at last is the end of our Fellowship,” said Aragorn, and he reached out his hands. Gimli and Legolas laid theirs upon his at once, and they were swiftly joined by the Hobbits. Last of all, Gandalf added his hand to theirs. “Yet I hope that ere long you will return to my land with the help that you promised. I already long to see you all again.”

“We will come,” swore Gimli. “Gates I promised you, and Gates you shall have.”

“As soon as our own Lords allow,” Legolas amended.

“Please don’t start another war in the North, you two,” Gandalf told them. “I’ve had quite enough of flitting about and putting out fires!”

“I will miss you all terribly,” said Pippin sadly.

“Ach, chin up, my hobbits! You should come safe to your own homes now, and I shall not be kept awake for fear of your peril. But please, for the sake of my heart, stay clear of wells and trolls, eh?” Gimli said, smiling at him.

Legolas was more solemn as he looked deep into their faces. “We will send word when we may, and some of us may yet meet at times; but I fear that we shall not all be gathered together ever again.”

“The bonds of our Fellowship can never be broken,” said Frodo. “Never.”

“Not even by death, may his soul rest in peace,” added Sam staunchly. Ori bit down on his glove, and thanked the Hobbit’s honest little heart for remembering Boromir in that moment.

“Tea is at four,” Merry said, and he squeezed tightly at their joined hands with all his might. “And you’re not to bother knocking!”

Finally Gandalf let his hands fall. “I am prouder of all of you than I have words to tell,” he said. “And I say to you, be happy and well! For you are the great ones of Middle-Earth now, and to you falls her care and protection. No finer guardians could she ask for.”

…

“Will I ever see you again?”

Galadriel paused with her hands still tucked in a saddlebag. “I know you will, Lockbearer.”

Gimli ducked his head. “But, I thought you were sailing. Now that the Ring is gone and all.”

“I am.” She turned, and knelt before him. Her hair was free, and golden rivulets framed her face in waves of glory. “I will. When the tides turn and the wind blows to the west, my exile shall be ended and the white shore will call me home at last. Yet if there is anything left of the grace granted to me of old, then I foretell that we shall meet again. This is not the end, my friend.”

Gimli shook his head. “I don’t see how. Not at all.”

She tucked a lock of his bright hair behind his ear, and then laid a kiss on his brow. “Namárië,” she said, and smiled upon his honest confusion. “For now.”

...

It was a two-month journey on horseback to the North, and Erebor. It seemed no time at all to Thorin, who watched Gimli and Legolas occasionally to make sure of their safe passage. He never stayed too long, however. He well remembered what it was to be around a pair newly hand-fasted from the time following his sister’s wedding.

He gave his visits some variety by periodically checking upon the Hobbits and Gandalf as they made their journey West. It was an easy task, guarded as they were by both the Wizard, Elrond and Glorfindel. They were but scant days from Rivendell: Bilbo was tremendously eager to see them.

Then one day, just as Autumn's colours were beginning to fade, a sight so familiar that it tore Thorin’s heart finally rose in the distance before Arod’s nose.

“Nearly there,” Thorin said, and took a slow, deep breath, before allowing the stars to carry him away. They would arrive soon, and then it would begin, and he had a feeling that he would need all his strength and all his wits to support Gimli through it. 

Some time later, Legolas stared up at the pitted, battle-scarred slopes of the Mountain. The fields between Dale and Erebor were thick with grey-green grass when at last they faced the familiar Gates. The giant stone statues either side had been pulverised into near-ruins, but they still brandished their axes high. “Are you ready?”

Gimli shook his head, his braids bouncing. “No.”

Legolas swallowed. “Neither am I.”

“Well, let’s go and not be ready together then,” Gimli said, and squeezed Legolas’ hand. “They’ll know we’re here. The sentries will have spotted us miles away.”

Legolas’ lip quirked. “Even in full daylight?”

“I’ll have you know we make circles of glass that are polished so finely that you can see the scales upon a single thread of hair,” Gimli said, and pinched his thigh. “We should let Arod rest.”

“I swear, Gimli, you have become more solicitous of him even than I. They will be calling you a Dwarf of Rohan next.”

“Soon enough, if I can convince my new King about our caves,” Gimli said. He took a deep breath, and dropped down from Arod’s back, his feet hitting the ground with an almighty thud. Then he looked up and his eyes firmed with resolve. “Best to get on with it.”

“Are you sure we can’t go and live in the Shire?” Legolas muttered, but he also dismounted and took Arod’s halter in his hand. “You must call. My throat is dry.”

“Aye, ale there must be, and plenty of it – and soon!” Gimli raised his voice. “Ho, the Mountain!”

“Ho, travellers! A strange pair! What is your business?”

Gimli growled. “My business is to kick your bloody behind, Jeri child of Beri! You know damned well who I am.”

“And now I’m sure of it,” came the light laughter from the battlements. “Gimli, welcome! Good to see you home at last! You’ve a few things to fess up to, I hear!”

“You’re a gossip, Jeri,” Gimli shouted back, rolling his eyes. “Open the gates!”

“Is that Thranduil’s son with you?”

“No, it’s the seventh coming. Who else d’you think it is?” Gimli said, folding his arms.

“Tetchy!” Jeri sang out. “Right, hang on a mo, the doors are a bit sticky ever since the siege. Open ‘em!”

“The siege must have been terrible indeed,” Legolas murmured, looking around. The ground was tossed into hillocks all around the mountainside, and though the grass was peeping through, many places were burned and bare.

“I’m guessing so,” Gimli said, and his jaw was tense. “Quick, are my beads facing the right way? Are they clean?”

“They look better than when I first met you, meleth,” laughed Legolas. “Now that you have your own personal hair-tender, you are practically unrecognisable. They will not believe you to be the same scruffy Dwarf that left Erebor.”

Gimli looked amused for a moment, and then with a deep crack the great gates of Erebor began to swing open towards them. “Here we go,” he muttered, and he threw back his shoulders, his chin high and set.

“Together,” Legolas said quietly, and they stood still as the warm dark unfurled before them.

...

TBC

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal - May we meet again with the grace of Mahal (formal goodbye)  
> ‘uzghu ma ziraku - ‘Blunt Battle’ - a game of strategy not dissimilar to chess.  
> Inùdoy – son  
> Ghivashelê – my treasure of all treasures  
> Gimlîn-zâram – star-pool  
> Idmi - welcome  
> Kheled-zâram – Mirrormere  
> Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu – my fiery son of the heart  
> Âzyungelê – my love of all loves  
> Mahumb - droppings  
> Azaghîth – little warrior  
> Sansûkhâl – Man who sees clearly  
> Idùzhibuh – my diamond  
> Nahùba - heroic  
> Gandalf, gamil bâhûn, birashagimi. – Gandalf old friend, I am sorry.
> 
>  **Sindarin**  
>  Ionneg – my son  
> honeg nín – my brother  
> meleth nín – my love  
> Mir nín – my treasure  
> Elen nín – my star
> 
>  **Quenya**  
>  A vanimar, vanimálion nostari! - O beautiful ones, parents of beautiful children!  
> Namárië - farewell
> 
> …
> 
> Azaghâl – the Lord of Belegost during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he swore allegiance to Maedhros and in battle grievously wounded the first and greatest of dragons, Glaurung, the great worm of Angband.
> 
> Wilwarin, Telumendil, Soronúmë, and Anarríma – these constellations were created by Varda to welcome the Elves to Middle-Earth. Wilwarin means ‘Butterfly’, Soronúmë means ‘Eagle of the West’, and Anarríma means ‘Sun-Border’ in Quenya.  
> 
> Mahal singing of stone – a reference to the Ainulindalë in The Silmarillion, and the music of the Ainur, the creation of the world.
> 
> Scatha and the Men of Éothéod – here the Dwarves remember a slightly altered version of events to the Men of Rohan. The Éothéod were the ancestors of the Rohirrim. They lived in the North before Eorl the Young was granted the lands they now hold (for aiding Gondor in battle). In those days, dragons were still plentiful in the Grey Mountains, and Scatha was one of the worst.
> 
> Scatha was slain by Fram son of Frumgar (and Eorl’s direct ancestor). According to Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings, both Fram and the local Dwarves made claim to the dragon’s treasure. But Fram rebuked the Dwarves’ claim and sent them the Dragon’s teeth, with the message, “Jewels such as these you will not match in your treasuries, for they are hard to come by.” For this insult, it was said, the Dwarves killed Fram.
> 
> The Dwarves’ own story, as I have theorised here, is a little different!
> 
> Swan-Lady - this is Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil and princess of Dol Amroth. Eomer marries her ;)
> 
> Tasarinan – Quenya. Nan-tathren in Sindarin, or ‘Willow-Vale’, it was a land that sank beneath the sea with Beleriand, and was possibly inhabited by Ents (or Ent-wives).
> 
> ...
> 
> __  
> **As always, I cannot thank you enough for supporting me and this story. You are all 1000% amazing, and I am filled with total and utter gratitude for every. single. comment. and. kudos. You are, every one of you, beautiful and amazing souls. THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH!**  
> 


	45. Chapter Forty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I've now added mouse-over text to this chapter :) Hover your cursor over the Sindarin or Khuzdul for the translation!
> 
> As always, the [Mighty Sansukh Masterpost](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/66451748399/sans%C3%BBkh-the-mighty-mighty-masterpost) has all the links to everything! Fic, art, podfic, graphic novel and songs! :D
> 
> My dearest and humblest thanks go to Notanightlight, our glorious Gimris, who pre-read this chapter for me. Love you, Nota.

“THORIN!”

Looking up from his drafts, Thorin rubbed his eyes. “Dáin?”

“Thorin, you have to come NOW!” His cousin appeared at the door, his wild hair nearly standing straight up in his excitement. “They’ve reached home - they’re home - it’s starting!”

“And are you delighted or worried by that fact?” Thorin said dryly, and Dáin threw his hands up.

“Can’t I be both? Come ON, you great noble lump, time to watch! My money’s on Glóin.”

“You’re indulging Nori?” asked Thorin, following Dáin through the corridors at a smart clip. Dáin snorted indelicately.

“Indulging nothing, I’ve been waiting for this for _months.”_

“Nadad, did you hear…?” Frerin gasped, skidding to a halt as he met them outside the great pearl-encrusted doors of the Chamber of Sansûkhul.

“Aye, Gimli is home - and so it begins.” Thorin led them inside, and Frerin scurried fast as quicksilver to his chair.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” Dáin said, pushing them along, and he stared into the water with a kind of gleeful dread.

Thorin shook his head, and followed his brother and cousin down into the starry depths.

He could hear Gimli before he could see him. “...no matter what may happen,” his star was saying softly. “I will not be parted from you. Remember that when you hear what words may be flung at us.”

“And you, elen nín,” replied Legolas, equally soft. “Do you anticipate much in the way of foul words?”

“I have no idea what to expect at all,” Gimli sighed. Thorin squinted, and the outer bailey of Erebor made itself plain to him. The pair were walking through the open Gates into the first Entry chamber, leading Arod by his halter. “There’s sentries in this room: always are. Plus the Dwarves that work the door, of course.”

“I cannot see them,” said Legolas, peering around. The great cave was quite bright, lit by mirrors angled from the roof. There were walkways ringing the walls, and high stone railings to protect them. No Dwarves, however. There was not a Dwarf in sight.

Gimli smiled up at him. “O’course not, they’re hidden. Not much of a defensible bailey if you can see ‘em coming, is it?”

“Gimli! Gimli, home at last!”

The cry boomed around the cavern, and Gimli’s mouth dropped open and he turned to see another Dwarf with grey hair and a bald pate rushing towards him. “Dwalin!”

“You fool lad, you took your time!” Dwalin roared, and he caught Gimli up in a huge bear-hug before cracking their brows together soundly. “Let me look at you! Ach, you’ve caught a blow on the head there, I see the scar! Didn’t ye remember to duck, or were you too busy making kissy faces at Elves?”

Gimli pushed at Dwalin good-naturedly. “I ducked well enough, and it was barely a scratch. You’ve given me worse!”

“Damn right I have,” Dwalin said, and clapped a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, beaming at him. “Why, you’re a sight for sore eyes, magashrûn! With your hair and beard that way I barely even recognise you!”

“That’s not my idea,” Gimli said, grinning.

At that moment, Dwalin’s eyes flicked up to Legolas. They were guarded and cautious, but not angry. Thorin found that something of a surprise. “So we’ve all heard. Well, up you come, no good standing on the doorstep all day.”

Arod was handed to a groom (who looked at the horse with some trepidation: the largest beasts they usually stabled were ponies or pigs). Then Gimli and Legolas followed Dwalin through a side-tunnel, and on into the inner corridors of the Mountain. Whispers could be heard from galleries all around as they passed, and Legolas’ keen ears could not have missed them. Thorin threw a quick look at the Elf. He seemed at ease to a casual glance, but upon closer inspection his neck was taut and his chin held with perfect control, as though he was only maintaining a long-practiced poise.

“Have you received any… other visitors,” asked Gimli, as delicately as he could.

“Aye, been hosting a whole gaggle of Elves for months now. And Men too, though they’re mostly gone back to Dale. Did you see the rebuilding?”

“As we passed, yes, but we didn’t stop,” said Gimli. His impatient questions shone in the flash of his eyes. “Dwalin…”

“And a handful more visitors, too. My wife was pleased to see ‘em,” Dwalin continued in the exact gruff tone. “Bit of a surprise for me, let me tell you.”

Gimli let out a breath. “Aye. I’ll bet. Found it surprising myself.”

“You didn’t think to let me know?”

“I thought,” said Gimli, studying the tips of his boots, “that it probably wasn’t a good move to give you news that was hers to tell. I wouldn’t step between spouses for the world. _Particularly_ when they’re as bloody dangerous as you two.”

“Hah.” Dwalin reached out and scruffed Gimli’s immaculate hair, an unmistakeably fond gesture. “Remember a time when you said that to me on a practice field.”

“Aye, and you ground me into the dust anyway.” Gimli grinned as he endured the rough affection.

“I thought Náli was your teacher, meleth nin?” said Legolas.

“Ah! Náli was my teacher in my Apprentice-years. Once I worked for my journeymanship and my mastery, Dwalin had the pleasure of beating me up instead,” Gimli laughed.

Dwalin sent an unfriendly look towards Legolas, but his voice was in no way hostile as he said, “my best student.”

“Then you are a gifted teacher indeed, for Gimli is one of the finest warriors I have ever met,” Legolas said, and his voice was also carefully neutral.

“High praise from one who has no doubt seen many warriors over the centuries,” said Dwalin.

“But not from a husband,” said Legolas, without thinking. The whispers all around them hushed for an instant, and then they redoubled. Gimli winced.

“Oh, that’ll go around the Mountain like a wildfire, that will. Shouldn’t have said that, lad.”

Dwalin was looking at Gimli now, his eyes level and unblinking. “Speaking of things that shouldn’t be said, I wouldn’t mention fire under the Mountain: sore subject. An’ you didn’t have enough gristle to chew in the pot you’ve stewed for yourself, you had to add a bit _more_?”

“Married in the Elven way!” Gimli protested.

Dwalin sighed. “That doesn’t make it any better, laddie. Come on, we’re going up to the heart. They’ll all be in Council this time of day. Stonehelm’s idea. He’s always on about ‘forging connections’ an’ ‘sharing ideas’ and ‘ _debate’_.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“Sounds _boring,_ you mean,” grunted Dwalin. “Ought to put you on chamber-detail for the rest of your bloody life.”

“Gimli!” came a cry, and he blinked and turned. Rushing towards him was Dori, Bofur at his heels. Dori’s gait was somewhat lopsided, as though he had injured his back at some point. Bofur was wearing a pair of thick spectacles and carrying a stick, but he followed Dori well enough.

“Gimli, home at last, young master Gimli!” Dori shouted, and he caught the younger Dwarf up in a massive hug. “Now, let me look at you! Tsk, dreadful, you’re scandalously skinny, your mother shall have fits. I will make up some of our pudding for you. Ach, you’ve been sunburnt! What did I tell you about wearing your hood?”

“Mother Dori,” sighed Thorin, smiling, and remembering Nori’s words long ago.

“Sorry, Dori,” Gimli said, ducking away from the exuberant old fellow. “You look well! It is so wonderful to see you! Bofur, my brother, how are you?”

“Your sister’s going to use you as a rug, I’m marvellous,” Bofur beamed, and he slapped Gimli’s back, before pretending to shake his hand in pain. “Mahal’s balls! Aye, feed him up Dori, or we’ll bruise ourselves gettin’ a hug!”

“It’s not so bad as that,” Gimli scoffed.

“It sort of is,” Frerin said under his breath.

“C’mere,” Bofur said, and he dragged Gimli into a headbutt. “Your father’s worried sick,” he whispered while their heads were close. “Mind him, would you? We’ve all been so concerned about him, poor old Dwarf.”

“I never meant to worry him,” Gimli said, his eyes falling again.

“Aye, but you do, and you have, and you will again. That’s what your children _do.”_ Bofur clasped his hand behind Gimli’s neck for a brief moment, and then let go. “And mine more than most, so I should know.”

“How is my wee warrior?” Gimli wanted to know, and Dori huffed loudly and with dramatic displeasure. Bofur sniggered.

“Same as always,” Dwalin said. “Trying to dismantle the world one stone at a time. He’s a mite more effective now that he’s got that Elf for a partner in crime.”

Legolas looked startled to hear it confirmed so easily, and leaned forward. “Truly?”

“Aye, your brother,” Dwalin said, and shook his head. “The tall one. Thought he was nothin’ but a sneer with legs, an’ then Gimizh happened. Took everyone by surprise, that.”

“We’re off to the Council chamber,” Gimli told the pair. “Dwalin says everyone is in session.”

“It’s not the old room,” Bofur said, squinting and readjusting his glasses. “It’s the old War room. Stonehelm likes the tables.”

“Tables?”

“We’re all still adjusting to having a new King,” Dori said. “They all must have their little peccadilloes. This one likes weighing everything in the most deliberate way possible, it seems.”

“Except the times when he takes decisive action. Which is usually with a sword an’ that ball of terrifying death he calls a Morningstar,” Bofur added cheerfully. “We’ll come with. I want to see this happen, so I do. You know how much your loving sibling interactions warm the cockles of me poor tired heart.”

“Oh yes, I know,” Gimli said, giving him a dark look.

Dain was looking so proud he might actually float off the floor. “He’s not doin’ it like me. He’s found another way to do it and still keep his own thoughts, and his own decisions – an’ it’s a damn sight better than any we’ve ever found before, t’ my mind. Anyone is allowed to listen in on the deliberations. Anyone can speak. Even the Elves and Men may have a voice at the Council now!”

Thorin chuckled and nudged him. “Long live the King, eh?”

“And what happened to your eyes?” Gimli was asking, and Bofur fiddled uncomfortably with his glasses.

“Ahh, well, long story. Needs an ale to tell it properly. They get tired still and I get rip-roaring headaches, so I might end up closing them for a bit, fair warning.”

“Like you ever needed ‘em to get around anyway,” Dwalin said with a loud snort. “Best damn miner we’ve ever known. Eight miles in a week!”

“Should be statues of me, I know.” Bofur placed a modest hand on his chest.

“Come on, we’ll be all day at this rate,” said Dori, crossing his arms. “And we’re blocking the path.”

“Nearly there,” said Gimli, taking Legolas’ hand as they began to move on. Dori eyed their joined hands with extreme distaste, but forbore to comment.

“I am not made for this ratcheting tension,” Legolas murmured. “I feel like I will shatter.”

“All these eyes on you, and all the whispers?” Gimli said, his expression full of sympathy. “We do tend to live in each other’s pockets. Comes from all of us being in one place. We can take a moment to breathe first if you’d prefer, ghivashelê.”

“No… no. I will see this through.” Legolas drew himself up to his full height. “Thank you, mir nín, but I would not shame you so.”

“Shame? Poppycock.” Dori raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “If you need time, take it.”

Gimli whispered, “Don’t argue with Dori, love.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I would be horrified to give offense!”

Dwalin was giving Legolas a speculative sort of look. “Different,” was all he said.

“Wouldn’t use our heads as a stepping stone these days, good to know,” said Bofur with breezy insouciance.

Gimli’s eyebrows jumped high on his forehead, and he turned to Legolas. The Elf was bright red. “More to tell me, âzyungelê?”

“I do not need any time, thank you,” he said through clenched teeth.

To Thorin’s astonishment, Dwalin chuckled. “Ah, well. Call it revenge for all the lip I gave you in your dungeons, eh?”

Legolas blinked and turned down to the old Dwarf, trudging heavily along before them. “Would you not have vengeance for the dungeons themselves?”

“If I know Gimli, he’s barked about that plenty of times already.” Dwalin’s mouth crooked in his savage-looking smile. “And this should put paid to the last of it. We’re here.”

“Oh, Mahal’s teeth,” Gimli breathed, and he pressed his heels against the stone as hard as he could.

 “Strength, my star,” Thorin whispered, as Dwalin rapped the butt of Keeper upon the door before him with three hollow booms.

“Here we go!” said Dáin, grinning like a sunrise.

The door opened upon a rumble of voices, the lighter tones of Men amongst them and on occasion the silvery tongue of an Elf. But all sound stopped as Dwalin entered with Gimli and Legolas in tow. Dori and Bofur slipped in behind them and shut the door in perfect silence.

“Gimli…” came a rusty croak from one of the great tables, and Dís slowly stood, her mouth open in shock and joy. “Gimli!”

“GIMLI!” came a roar, and then Glóin was rushing towards them, his arms open and his eyes streaming tears. “Gimli, Gimli, my lad, my wee lad – oh, Mahal thank you, thank you-” And he caught Gimli in a gigantic embrace that knocked all the air out of him. “My boy, my brave boy, oh thank Mahal, thank you, thank you,” Glóin gasped over and over, stroking Gimli’s fiery hair and clutching him close.

“Da, I’m well, I’m home,” Gimli said, and Thorin smiled to hear the tears choking his voice as well. “I’m home, I’m all right.”

“No, you’re a sun-bleached _fool_ , is what you are!” Glóin sobbed against his shoulder. His white mane was already caught in the wetness upon his face. “What’s this I’m told? What’s this you write? And I cannot – boy, I _cannot-_ what did I tell you? Keep an eye on him, not bloody fall in love with the tree-shagger - you damn fool child, let me see you-”

He pushed back and held Gimli at arm’s length, and his lips shivered between an expression of joy and agony. “I _hate_ your hair,” he said at last. Another tear rolled into his beard. “You need to eat, look at you, you’re nothing but bedrock and bone.”

“You also told me to brush it, didn’t you?” Gimli said, smiling with wet eyes.

“Aye, _you_ should bloody be brushing it,” Glóin growled, and he tugged Gimli’s shoulders forward – away from Legolas. “Come now, come greet everyone…”

Gimli looked back at Legolas, trying to speak without words. Glóin noticed, and his growl became a snarl. “You don’t need his damned permission!”

“No, Da, I wasn’t gaining permission…”

“Gimli needs nothing of mine,” Legolas said at the same time.

“Oh mahumb,” Frerin whimpered.

“Aye, and remember that!” Glóin spat, and he wrapped his arm around Gimli tightly. “Keep clear, you hear me? Don’t go stealing that which is not yours, though Mahal only knows an Elf can’t help themselves - not when they can help themselves!”

“Da!” Gimli gasped, outraged.

Legolas looked resigned.

“Glóin,” came a stern voice, and the King stood. “You will not speak that way about our friends and allies, and most certainly not to your own son’s intended.”

“Intended!” Glóin shouted, the veins standing up on his neck.

“No,” said Thranduil, standing suddenly and studying his son. “No, it has gone far further than intent. Has it not, ionneg?”

“I wondered when we’d hear from him, hoo boy,” Dáin said, and he sat down on a desk and leaned back, enjoying the show.

“You are truly terrible,” said Thorin, shaking his head.

“Oh yes, absolutely terrible. Budge up,” said Frerin, scooting next to Dáin and watching with huge eyes.

Legolas met Gimli’s eyes again, and then he looked up at his father. “I have missed you so, Adar.”

Thranduil walked with stately pace around the chamber, and it was as though his very presence had mesmerised everyone there. Unhurried and elegant, Thranduil lifted a hand to Legolas’ face and stroked the skin over his cheek.

“Of your free will,” he said. It was not a question.

“I live still,” Legolas said, and bent his head.

“I don’t get it,” Frerin muttered, but Thorin had an uncomfortable feeling that he had read something about Elves, something that would make this exchange clear, that he could not quite remember.

From the set look on Dáin’s face, he remembered perfectly well – and was not going to say it aloud.

Thranduil closed his eyes for a split second, and then lifted Legolas’ face to his level once more. “The gulls as well?” he said, so softly it might have been an errant breeze.

“Aye,” said Legolas, and he realised what he had said, and swallowed. “I mean, yes Adar.”

Thranduil stared at him. “I do not accept this. You know that.”

“I know.” Legolas pressed his hand over his father’s, keeping it against his cheek. “I love him, Adar.”

“I believe that you believe that,” Thranduil said sorrowfully. Then he kissed Legolas’ forehead and drew him into an embrace. “You are safe and come back to me. The rest may wait a short while.”

Legolas flung his arms around his father in return, and tucked his head into the crook of Thranduil’s shoulder. Then the two elder brothers came rushing forward – Laindawar with deadly grace, Laerophen with a slight stumble – and they wrapped themselves around the pair like a coat.

“Well.” Dáin sounded mildly surprised. “Perhaps the old Elf’s got blood and not ice in his veins after all.”

Glóin had watched this exchange with his mouth gaping open, but when he felt Gimli’s eyes upon him it snapped shut in an instant. “I don’t accept it either,” he said, his jaw tight and his teeth clipping around the words.

“Aye.” Gimli looked at him sadly. “We expected that.”

“And wrote a damned idiotic letter to ‘prepare’ us so we could fret for _months,_ you blockhead!” came the shriek, and Gimrís stormed forward, her fists clenched.

“Oh help, save me,” Gimli gasped, and Glóin chuckled.

“Face the rockslide you started, boy.”

“Nadad, come here! Get your overly-muscled backside over here, I’m going to kick it all the way down the Mountain!” Gimrís snapped. Yet when Gimli slunk away from Glóin’s arms and stood before her, fidgeting, she simply let out a sound of sheer frustration and clung to him like a cave-limpet.

Gimli wrapped his arms around her, and rocked her ever so slightly. “Namadith,” he said. “More beautiful and terrifying than ever.”

“I’m still going to kick your backside,” she said damply.

“No word of a lie, I’m looking forward to it,” he said as she kissed him. “Gimrís, you look tired.”

“And no thanks to you! Because of your bloody letter, I’ve had _elves_ pestering me day and night! Question after bloody question, all about you! You are the _worst_ troll a Dwarrowdam ever had to call - Oh great Durin’s beard, Gimli, you were _hurt?”_ Gimrís immediately broke off her scolding and began prising apart the thick hair at his temple. “This was a jagged cut, and field-dressed. It bled a lot, it’s ragged, took too long to heal. What clown wrapped this!”

“You’re looking at him,” said Gimli, laughing.

“Aye, should have known. I’ve some oil to rub on that scar, see if you can’t get it softer. The hair will grow back in white, wait and see. Serves you right! Mahal below, Gimli, you’re naught but skin and hair and muscle! You’ll never see a winter through like that, you’re like dried mutton. And your _hands…!”_

Gimli held them up, frowning at them. “What about them?”

She glared. “They’re like sandpaper. You’re drying out, you husk. Food and plenty of liquids, not too salty, and go light on the beer!”

“Gimrís, _stop…”_

“Oh, I see it now,” said Laindawar laconically, tucking back Legolas’ hair and frowning at the new weave of his braids. “And what is this on your thumb, honeg nin?”

“Gimli made it for me. An archer’s ring.” Legolas held up his hand. “A betrothal custom of his people. Is it not beautiful?”

“Beautiful indeed,” said Laerophen, as though inviting a challenge.

Thranduil’s nostrils flared, ever so slightly.

“Where’s Mum?” Gimli asked, looking around the room. Gimrís pursed her lips.

“Watching Gimizh and the Dwalinul pebbles today. We’ll go see her straight after.”

“That’d be a kindness.” Gimli kissed her again. “You are a sight for sore eyes, and a welcome pain in the ears.”

“And your breath is as terrible as ever, Trollface,” she huffed, and hugged him once more. Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she mumbled, “I missed you, Nadad.”

“Missed you too, my fierce Namadith.”

“Gimli Glóinul,” said the Stonehelm patiently. “Do you have missives to give us? And an apology, possibly?”

Gimli looked up to the King and grimaced a little. “Aye, sorry for all the mess. I couldn’t see a way that it _couldn’t_ become a mess, to be honest. But I am sorry that I was not here to deal with it.”

“As am I,” added Legolas, and he extricated himself from the huddle of his family to stand before the Council.

“I have documents,” Gimli said, and he unslung his pack from his shoulder. It landed upon the patterned stone floor with a heavy thump, and he rummaged through it. “Ah! Here. From the Kings of Gondor and Rohan, declaring friendship and fellowship with our people from this time forevermore. One here from Peregrin Took of the Shire, son of the Thain, who confirms our right to visit and trade as we will, subject to his father’s approval. Also here is a message from Gandalf the White, and the great Elven nobles, Elrond of Rivendell and Galadriel of Lothlórien.”

The Stonehelm looked taken-aback. “Do they also declare their friendship?”

“For such time as they have, yes.” Gimli looked up, his hands full of papers. “They are leaving these shores. It will not be long before those lands are emptied. Until that day, however, they extend their hands in love and friendship and the spirit of this new Age.”

Thranduil took a short, sharp breath.

“That’s a welcome surprise,” said Glóin stiffly.

“We have been granted leave from the King of Rohan to build a colony in the White Mountains,” Gimli continued. “They are the most beautiful caverns I have ever seen, surpassing even Khazad-dûm in glory. I would take those of our people who wish to go, and tend to them. Gondor also gives us use of their land for trade and travel on the old roads, which are now made safe. The Gates of Minas Tirith were badly damaged during their siege, and there is work for Dwarven hands and goodwill for the Dwarven people to collect there.”

“Hmm.” The Stonehelm stroked at his cropped beard. “New trade and new works, and a new colony! You have been busy, son of Glóin! This is promising indeed!”

“I have less welcome news,” Gimli said softly, and he drew forth a battered book from his pack. Crossing the floor, he held it out to Dori and simply said, “I am sorry.”

Dori stared at the book for a moment, and then he took it in shaking hands.

“I can’t bear his face,” moaned Frerin.

“I have the fate of the Khazad-dûm expedition,” Gimli said, and he squared his shoulders. He appeared as though he was about to plunge himself into fire. “They are long dead. Balin was slain by an Orc as he crossed Azanulbizar to peer into the Mirrormere. Óin was taken by the Watcher in the Water – a beast that nearly took us as well. Náli, Urgit and Lóni were slain at the Western Gates, and Frár was killed at the Endless Stair. And Ori – Ori was killed in the Chamber of Mazarbul, where the final handful made their last stand. That is his record.”

Dori let out a choked sob, and his head bent over the scarred and battle-scored book. Dwalin and Bofur both moved to support him as his legs gave out beneath him.

There was a silence, and then the King bowed his head. “We will hold a funeral. May they be remembered.”

“Dori, Dwalin, I am so sorry,” said Gimli. “Da – oh Da, I am _so_ sorry.”

Glóin’s shoulders were shaking, and his hand was clamped hard over his mouth. Gimli and Gimrís converged upon him, and held him tightly. “Damn him,” Glóin could be heard to say, his words cracking. “And damn that place forevermore.”

“Now, to the most immediate matter,” said the Stonehelm, and he rubbed at his eyes. “Gimli, you have written to tell us that you have found your One in an Elf. This Elf. Thranduil of Mirkwood has stayed with us these many months in preparation for this moment. Do you wish to wed?”

“They have already wed,” said Laerophen, shrugging. “The matter is sealed.”

“What!” Glóin pushed Gimli away and gazed at him in horror.

Dwalin shook himself and gripped Keeper more tightly in one tattooed hand. “Keep it civil, old friend,” he said warningly.

“In the Elven way, yes.” Legolas reached out a hand, and Gimli stepped back to take it. His dark eyes were flashing in defiance. “But not in the Dwarvish manner.”

“I won’t have it!” Glóin blustered, his head swinging between Dwalin and the odd pair standing hand-in-hand before him.

“For once, I am in agreement with the bad-tempered one,” said Thranduil silkily. “I would not have my son sullied by some dark and primitive ceremony.”

“Dark and PRIMITIVE…!” Glóin nigh-roared.

“And you can keep a civil tongue too, ta muchly,” Dwalin snapped at the Elvenking.

“We wish to wed!” Gimli said loudly over the new din. “We wish to, and we will, though all of you naysay us! I love him, all right? I am his, everything I am. I have seen wonders and horrors unnumbered in this world, and yet one look from him steals my breath away! He knows my Name, Da, and I have forged him his wedding-ring. I swore to him, when all the hordes of Mordor came screaming from the Black Gate to seal our deaths, I swore it and I will not be forsworn, never to him! We will be wed, we will make new things old and old things new – _and Mordor itself could not stop us!”_

Thorin wanted to applaud. Gimli was standing proud and still, his deep voice echoing with complete certainty. To Thorin’s biased eyes he appeared as a King of old, a figure of legend. His conviction blazed in his face like the star he was named for.

Glóin could only stare at Gimli, his chest heaving and his expression completely ravaged. Then his face crumpled, and he turned away.

“Kinsman,” said the Stonehelm, gently. “Calm yourself.”

“I am not angry,” said Gimli, though the glint in his eyes told otherwise.

“No, you are furious,” said Legolas, and he crouched before Gimli and took both of his hands in his own. “My love, we expected this. Remember your words to me outside the doors of Erebor? Breathe with me, meleth nin.”

Gimli closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose.

“Well if any were in doubt, Gimli has just proven that he is Glóin’s son to the core,” murmured Frerin.

Thranduil watched, his head tipping and his gaze darting, calculating, measuring.

“Forgive me,” said Gimli at last, and he opened his eyes and looked upon Legolas with tenderness. “Thank you, âzyungelê. I am as nervous as you, it appears.”

“Nervous,” said Laindawar at once, frowning. “That is nerves? He is disposed to nervousness, then?”

“Shut up,” Gimrís said, without even so much as glancing in his direction.

“You may not support them, but I will,” said Laerophen, and he backed away from his father slightly. “I will. Did you hear his words? Look at them, Adar! Will you open your eyes and your heart and _look_ at them?”

Thranduil was still and silent.

Gimli raised his head to meet the eyes of the Elvenking, before turning to Laerophen. “No, lad, do not stand against your father, for he is your father and loves you. I am no cause for a rift between you,” he rumbled. “You must be Laerophen. Legolas has told me much of you.”

The tall, gawky Elf smiled. “And I have heard much of you from your mother and nephew. I find that I am well-pleased in my brother-in-law… even if he is not as tall as I might once have expected.”

“It is a great relief to find that not everything Legolas told me is as it was when he left,” Gimli said, and he held out his hand to Laerophen to clasp wrists. “Well met, Laerophen.”

“At your service,” Laerophen said, his grin turning mischievous, and Gimli laughed aloud. “And may the friendship be long!”

“It will not be long enough,” Thranduil said coldly. “He will die, as all mortals must.”

“And there we have it again,” sighed Legolas. “Adar, we have been over this more times than you can possibly imagine…”

“And yet still you chose the fool’s path,” Thranduil said.

“I disagree,” said Dís, and she stood and moved around her desk to stand before the couple.

“Namad, namad,” Frerin garbled, and he bit down hard upon his fingers. “She looks so _old…”_

“She _is_ old,” said Thorin sadly.

“Be happy together,” she said, and then raised an eyebrow at Glóin. “If you won’t post the notice, _I_ will.”

“Aunt Dís,” Gimli gasped, even as Glóin spluttered.

“I’ll pay for the whole Mahal-cursed wedding, if I must,” Dís went on, her voice stony and determined. “Gimli, come here and hug me, I’ve missed you. Introduce me.”

“Aaaah,” Gimli’s head whipped between his father and Dís, but eventually he bit his lip and pulled himself together. “All right… Dís daughter of Frís, this is Legolas Thranduilion.”

“Charmed,” she said, wry.  

Legolas took Dís’ hand, and he was trembling ever so slightly as he bowed over it. “The pleasure is mine, Lady. I have heard much of you. Thank you for your generosity of spirit.”

“Well, he has nicer manners than you, that’s for certain,” said Dís to Gimli, who rolled his eyes.

“Do not be so sure,” Legolas said, smiling. “Gimli was named Elf-Friend by the Lady Galadriel herself, for his courtesy and eloquence at their first meeting. I felt entirely tongue-tied just listening to him!”

“Hmm. That’s a better tale.” Dís smoothed a hand over Gimli’s head, and faint surprise showed in her face. “Smooth? You’ve tended and oiled it? What have you done with Gimli Glóinul?”

“Ahh, Legolas likes combing my hair,” mumbled Gimli, embarrassed.

“He takes abominable care of it,” Legolas said fondly.

“I’ve been telling him that for one hundred and thirty years!” said Gimrís, folding her arms and huffing in annoyance. “I’m glad to see that at least you’ve found a fellow with a bit of pride in appearances, nadad.”

“Too much, if you ask me,” Glóin growled. “Primping and preening like an Elf!”

“You would not say such a thing if you had seen us after the battle of Helms Deep,” said Gimli, crisply. He was obviously holding onto his temper at the implied insult. “Both of us covered in mud and blood, the Elf no better than I.”

“Ah, but you found the caves, so you also were soaked through to the bone, and a head-wound besides!” Legolas countered.

“It was _barely_ a _scratch_! And you were wet to the skin with rain-water; chill as a fish you were! T’was not me with mud all over my feet and between my toes!”

“No, you were the one with your beard in muddy knots and a rag tied around your head! A thoroughly disreputable sight you were, I should not have wished to encounter you on a dark night!”

“If you wore proper boots, you wouldn’t end up with half the Deeping Stream under your toenails, you sweet daft creature…”

“It was not _my_ helm that went bouncing away down the Coombe!”

“You dinnae wear a helm! And anyway, I beat your count without it. Baruk Khazâd!”

 “Then I must start wearing one to improve my chances.” Legolas laughed his bright, silvery laugh, and gave Gimli a swift kiss.

Then they froze. Two sets of eyes turned slowly and full of dread, towards the twin scowls of Thranduil and Glóin.

“They… started bickering and forgot where they were,” groaned Frerin. “Oh my Maker, what on your good earth are these two _thinking?”_

Laerophen and Gimrís both covered their mouths, hiding their grins. Dwalin was chuckling, his shoulders shaking, and Bofur was in silent hysterics.

“Thranduil’s face is gonna keep me warm for the rest of my li- my existence,” declared Dáin.

Without a word, Thranduil spun on his heel and stalked from the Council room, his robes billowing behind him. Laindawar gave Gimli an undecipherable look, before following. Laerophen stayed, his mirth still showing clearly in his eyes.

“There’s more to report,” said Gimli, his face extremely red.

“But it can wait until after you’ve had time to yourselves and your loved ones,” said the King, and he was also grinning. “Please don’t start any more battles, if you don’t mind. We’re still recovering from the last one.”

…

Laindawar stepped out onto the battlements, the wind toying with the edges of his hair. He pulled a breath in through his nose, and then another. His fist clenched atop the crenellated wall, opening and closing spasmodically. He wished he were able to hunt, to escape to the dark safe woods of his home, but only unforgiving rock surrounded him as far as he could see. Even the last grey tufts of autumn grass upon the plain below were not enough. Trees, he needed the close embrace of trees.

The Dwarf was not what he had expected. Not at all.

Yet that was not what rested so heavily in his mind.

“Not your usual haunt,” came a cheerful voice, and Laindawar snapped his head around to see the green-bearded one, the guard. “What brings you out here, highness?”

“It is not your concern,” he said curtly.

“Oh, but I think it might be. Just come from your brother and his beau, haven’t you?”

Laindawar glared at them. He knew he had an excellent glare: all of the hauteur of his father, with the wild fierce falcon eyes of his mother.

The Dwarf was unperturbed. “Nope, I get skewered by my Ma’s eyes every time I don’t polish my plate: yours ain’t even a patch on that. Want to talk about it?”

“Why do you care?” Laindawar said bluntly. “You are not affected: why bother?”

“Nah, Gimli’s no kin of mine, true enough.” The Dwarf shifted their stance easily. It was a subtle move that told of long watches, the practised easing of weight from one foot to the other so that limbs would not stiffen and ache. A well-trained one, this. “But I live here, and that’s reason enough. Dwarves like an argument: what we don’t like is trouble. And that’s not the face of one who is at peace with himself.”

“Look, what is your name, Dwarf?”

“Jeri. Jeri, child of Beri.” The Dwarf’s face opened in a pleasant smile. “And I know yours, o’course.”

“Then leave me alone, Jeri child of Beri.”

“Nah, can’t. I’m on guard here this afternoon, though I might stay longer. Depends how I feel.”

Laindawar’s brows knitted, bemused despite himself. “Do you mean to say you choose your time of work? That is not usual for a guardsman.”

“Guard, thanks. No man nor woman here. And that’s one of the prerogatives given to me as the King’s bodyguard.” Jeri winked. “I get to pick where I’m most useful. And I get bored in Council. None of you buggers do anything but talk. In Dáin’s time, at least I got to break up some fistfights now and then.”

“Fistfights!?”

“Dwarven politics,” Jeri said, and shrugged. “So, done stalling? I’m a persistent sort, you know. You’ll have to leave to get me to stop asking.”

Laindawar tried the glare again, and then let out a great sigh when it had as little effect as the first time. Deflating, he turned to the vast expanse of grass between Erebor and Dale, searching for the dark line at the edge of the Lake which was his beloved forest.

“He’s not what I expected.”

“Who, Gimli?”

“No.” Laindawar swallowed. “My brother. He is… different.”

“Aye, that’ll happen when you’ve seen the wars those two have seen, I suppose. But you know how battle can change someone. You’ve seen it before haven’t you?”

“Yes, but.” Laindawar checked himself before he said anything too offensive – and then wondered at himself. He would never have bothered, only a month earlier. “It is not the battles I sense, hanging around him - though yes, the violence he has seen and dealt does indeed hang over him like a pall. I can hear the sea in his voice and watch the waves in his eyes, but it is not the greatest of the changes either. It is…”

“He’s in love,” Jeri said quietly.

Laindawar shuddered. “Yes. And he is fell and proud as a legend of old, and yet joyous as a child – no, I do not recognise him.”

“He’s still your brother.” Jeri shifted their weight again, and turned to face the grass as well – Dwarf and Elf standing shoulder-to-shoulder. “You’ve not really had a chance to reconnect yet, have you?”

“Not in truth,” Laindawar said, and looked down.

“There you are then. A bit hard to have a proper reunion with everyone measuring your every word. Talk to him without a hundred strange eyes staring down each move you make. Find the brother you know, and be glad of his differences.” Jeri nudged him familiarly. Laindawar bristled for a moment, but subsided as he realised that the advice was sound. In fact, the advice was better than any he had yet heard.

“I cannot celebrate these differences,” he heard himself say to the wind. “Not yet… and perhaps not ever.”

“Why not? Change is good. Change is the way of the world. We change, or we are left behind.” Jeri waved a hand at the grass ahead. “The world is changing. Perhaps this is just the first taste of it.”

“My brother has married a Dwarf,” Laindawar said, and the trees of his home waved upon the horizon, as though beckoning him to return to their comforting embrace, away from all this newness and strangeness. “This change… no. No. I cannot accept this.”

“I have a feeling that you already have,” Jeri said, and tugged knowingly at their beard. “That’s the tone of someone clinging to an old idea because they don’t know how to let go. But you don’t hate us all that much. At least, not so much as you did. You’ve grown used to us, eh? Perhaps you’re changing too, highness.”

Laindawar glanced down at the Dwarf. Where once he would have seen only rough hair and a squat ungainly body, he now saw clear intelligent eyes, a merry face, nimble and clever hands, strength in the carriage of the broad back and legs. “I dislike being wrong,” he muttered. “And I hope you do too. I am an Elf: I am not changeable as mortals are.”

“Your brother’s an Elf as well, remember,” Jeri reminded him, smiling.

Laindawar growled, and turned back to the trees.

“I think you’re changing more than you’d like to admit,” said Jeri gently. “You’re standing here talking to me, aren’t you? And it’s not all that unpleasant. Nobody’s even bleeding!”

“Yet.”

Jeri laughed. “You ought to go meet Gimli properly. He’s a damn good Dwarf. You might even like him, who knows?”

“He has the favour of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien,” said Laindawar, hard in thought. “It may be that he is exceptional amongst you.”

“Or perhaps there’s more to us than you ever expected,” said Jeri drily. “Go on, go talk to them and stop hiding here with me. Unless you feel like taking a turn at guard.”

…

It was a subdued party that made their way back to the family apartments. Gimli and Legolas walked shoulder to shoulder the entire way. The whispers yet followed, bouncing around the caves and corridors as they passed.

Glóin stalked at the head of their group, glowering.

The minute the door had shut behind them, he whirled upon the pair of them. “What did they mean, Elf-married,” he growled.

Legolas reddened, but Gimli was birch-pale. “It means that we are wed in the way that Elves recognise, Da. We’ve shared hearts and bodies. They are able to see this in Legolas’ eyes, I understand.”

Glóin huffed and coughed. “They can _see…?_ Shameless, utterly shameless!”

“No, they can only see that I am wed, no more,” Legolas said, regaining control over himself.

Glóin glared at him. “In the habit of taking goblin mutants to your bed, are you?”

“Da!” Gimli groaned. Legolas, surprisingly, chuckled.

“Only one, and he has long forgiven me the insult.”

“Well, _I_ haven’t. Gimli forgives too easily,” Glóin muttered.

“I need an ale,” Bofur declared. “Gimrís, want to help me get the meal together?”

As Bofur and Gimrís moved into the kitchen, Gimli looked around their living room. It was sparser than he had left it, and furniture was missing here and there: sacrificed to the hungry forges as wood ran scarce during the war. Yet there were still the pictures upon the walls: Gimli’s first draftings, Gimrís’ glass designs from her apprenticeship, the indecipherable and colourful scribbles of Gimizh. “Where’s Mum?”

“She should be coming back from Orla’s place any time now,” grunted Glóin. He looked up again at Gimli, his heart in his eyes. “Gimli, why?”

“Do not blame Gimli,” Legolas said, and he placed a hand upon Gimli’s shoulder. “He would have held his love a secret for all his days, had we not found our tongues at last.”

“D’you mean to say you loved him _before_ the…” Glóin coughed again, “the wedding?”

“Elves cannot do otherwise,” Legolas said. “We loved in silence and secret for months.”

Glóin turned to Gimli, his mouth open once more in utter shock.

“I know what that means, for Dwarves,” Legolas added very softly.

“Then…” Glóin swallowed, and ran his hands through his wild white hair. “Then… you say that… he would. Oh Mahal. Oh Mahal, I cannot. I cannot be having this!”

“Here,” said Bofur, thrusting out a tankard to Glóin. “You need it.”

Glóin took it and drained most of it in one huge gulp, and then flopped down into his old chair.

Bofur then gave one to Gimli. “One for you too, but don’t tell m’ruby.” He squinted through his glasses at Legolas. “Not sure how Elves feel about ale. Want one?”

“They like it well enough,” Legolas said, smiling. “At least this one does.”

“Drank me senseless in Rohan. Still don’t know where you put it, I’m sure you cheated,” Gimli said, and he took a careful sip. “Or you’ve a bloody hollow leg.”

There was a click, and then came a quavering, astonished, “Inùdoy?”

Gimli immediately thrust his tankard at Legolas and raced as fast as his legs would carry him for the door. A high childish shriek greeted him, and a low cry of joy. When Legolas turned to see, his hands full of ale, Gimli was wrapped in the arms of a stout Dwarrowdam with masses of silvery-white hair, while a small red-headed child danced madly all around them both.

“Uncle Gimli, Uncle Gimli, Uncle Gimli!” crowed Gimizh, hopping from one foot to the other in uncontrollable excitement.

  
  
Gimizh, by [Ursubs](ursubs.tumblr.com)  


“My son, oh my darling boy,” Mizim breathed, her face pressed into Gimli’s hair. She pulled back to stroke his face, his brow, his shoulders, her lip quivering. “Oh my son, my Inùdoy, I am so proud… oh my sweet boy, my brave boy...”

“Mum,” said Gimli, and his smile trembled as he wrapped his arms around her again. “You’re younger than ever.”

“And you’re still a terrible flatterer,” she sniffled, and kissed his cheek again and again. “Durin’s beard, you need food! Bofur, what are you doing handing out ale, this lad needs a meal! No, don’t bother, I’ll get started at once.”

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it,” Bofur protested, holding up his hands. “Gimrís is in there now!”

“I’ll help, just let me get my pack and cloak off,” Gimli said, and he swung his pack from his shoulder and laid it against the wall. “Ach, got a permanent crook in my back from that thing!”

His arms were immediately filled by small, hollering child. “UNCLE GIMLI!” was all that could be made out in the torrent of words.

“Hello, my azaghîth! You’re nearly as tall as me now!” Gimli said, and hugged the child close. “Now, my bonny lad, I might just have a few small things collected on my travels for a good boy.”

“I don’t see one of those around here,” said Gimrís, from the door. She was smiling tenderly as Gimizh tugged at Gimli’s beard, peppering his face with kisses. Mizim sighed out, clapping her hands together as she watched, her eyes moist.

“I see your mother is still as terrible as ever,” Gimli said, and Gimizh nodded furiously.

“Oh she is, she really honestly is – but, Uncle Gimli, I was in a battle! I killed a goblin, like you, an’ it was dead, BAM! With all lamp-oil over its head. And Da’ couldn’t see, but sometimes he can now, but his head hurts, and Wee Thorin got an _appellation_ for killing Orcs in the battle but I din’t. I don’t think that’s fair, do you?”

“Now, Gimizh, my wee treasure, everyone knows your appellation is ‘Terror of Erebor’,” said Mizim. “Let your uncle take his cloak off – what _is_ that cloak? What happened to your other one?”

Gimli set Gimizh on his feet, and began to unpick the leaf-brooch at his throat. “D’you know, I can’t remember?” He looked up at Legolas, who shrugged.

“It may have been lost in Mor- ahh, Khazad-dûm, or perhaps before. These were gifts of Lothlórien.”

“More Elves,” Glóin sighed.

“Don’t be rude, darling, introduce me,” Mizim said, and she took Gimli’s cloak and folded it over her arm, taking his hand.

“Legolas, my mother Mizim daughter of Ilga,” Gimli said.

“Your mother-in-law,” griped Glóin. “Does she look much like my brother, eh?”

“I was ignorant and foolish,” Legolas said. “She is as beautiful as you said, Gimli. At your service, Lady Mizim.” And he bowed.

 “Good gracious, none of that posh pretence, thank you. I’m Mum to you, if you please,” Mizim said, and she snapped her fingers before Legolas, who blinked. “You’re both horrendously thin, I have my work cut out for me! Cloak please. I’ll have them cleaned: Dori’s people do a fine job, and they won’t harm the weave. Such fine cloth!”

“You’re Laerophen’s brother,” accused Gimizh.

Legolas glanced at Gimrís and Bofur, and then at Glóin, whose beard puffed out in warning. Then he knelt before the child and nodded. “I am. I am Laerophen’s little brother. My name is Legolas, and I am Gimli’s husband.”

Gimizh stuck one of his curving plaits into his mouth, giving Legolas a sullen little look. Then he blurted, “Gimli’s _my_ uncle.”

“He is,” Legolas said, and he tipped back his head to grin at Gimli. “He is forever your uncle, and nothing we are can ever change that. How do you feel about having _two_ uncles?”

Gimizh scrunched up his face. “I suppose…”

“Twice the uncles means _twice the trolls!”_ Gimli said, and he rushed at Gimizh and caught him high in the air. The little boy rose yelping and laughing hysterically as Gimli ‘chomped’ at his stomach – with overdone munching noises for effect. “Excellent troll dinner, this one! Though it’s a trifle sticky – been at the kitchens again, have we?”

“Noooo, uncle _Gimliiiii…!”_ Gimizh gasped, wriggling and kicking. He struggled free and then raced away down the hall, Gimli in close pursuit, roaring and growling theatrically.

Gimrís and Bofur shared a look, shaking their heads. “Nothing changes,” Gimrís said, smirking. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get the water boiling.” And they disappeared into the kitchen.

“My grandchild,” said Glóin flatly.

Legolas laughed again – the bright clear bubbling laugh of the Elves. “He is a delight. Though perhaps we will need a little time to warm to each other. I am not taking Gimli’s love away from him, but he doesn’t yet understand that, I think.”

Glóin’s eyebrow twitched. “Hmm.”

Mizim then spotted the ring on Legolas’ finger, and pressed her hand to her chest. “My word, what a work that is! Let me see – why, those are my filigree spirals, I’ve used those for centuries! Did _Gimli_ make this?”

“He did.” Legolas lifted his hand so that both the older Dwarves could see the archer’s ring upon his thumb clearly. “He learned in secret, so he might gift it to me.”

“That clever boy, my word,” said Mizim, marvelling at it. “Beautiful. And a good idea to make it a thumb-ring, for you’re an archer like your brother, are you not?”

“Aye,” Legolas said, smiling at his ring. “But this ring has a better tale to it, one I think might interest you.”

Glóin grunted and began to pack his pipe. “Doubt it.”

“You shall judge.” Legolas sat back, his long legs stretching out across the floor. “It began in the wilds of Eriador. I was cross and rude, for I was impatient and uneasy, and the Hobbits and Gimli did not move as fast as the taller folk. Gimli had fallen behind.”

“I can see we’re going to need some taller furniture,” Mizim muttered, eyeing the stretch of long limbs over the rug. “No, go on, go on!”

“And did you insult him?” Glóin said, gruff and accusing.

“I did.” Legolas snorted a little. “Oh, by the stars, I did. The stiff necks of Elves, indeed! I could not see what stood before me, not at all. Not then.”

Glóin clenched his pipe in his teeth.

“This was before we had seen combat. We were only weeks out of Rivendell, and matters between us were chilly, to say the least. I told him he was slow, and loud, and would no doubt only hold us back.”

Mizim put a warning hand on Glóin’s arm.

“I asked what use he was to us in a fight at all,” Legolas said, and he shook his head in amazement at himself. “What a fool I was! But for all his eloquence, Gimli did not answer me with words. No, he answered me with actions, ones I could not mistake.”

Glóin huffed in satisfaction. “What did he do? Set you on your arse, I hope.”

“In a way. He most certainly shocked the arrogance out of me,” Legolas said, smiling. “He took a hair-bead from his pack, a golden one, heavy and ornate, and held it up to me to see. Then without so much as a noise or a change of expression, he flattened it there and then between his fingers, until it was no more than a disc of gold.”

Glóin broke into guffaws.

“I thought you might like that,” Legolas said, laughing with him. “He put my scorn in its proper place in seconds, and without any apparent effort at all! He flipped the disc to me, and I could not believe what I had seen. I even bit it to test its strength, but no, it was gold and Gimli could crush it without thought between two fingers alone! I was properly chastised. I kept the bead, slipping it into my pack, to remind me.”

“And then he made it into your betrothal ring,” Mizim said, and she squeezed Glóin’s leg. “Now that’s a good tale!”

Legolas sobered all at once, the merriment fading from his eyes. “I know you do not accept me,” he said, “and you have no reason to trust my change of heart. I will do all I must to assure you that it is true. I will.”

Glóin gripped his pipe in tense fingers for a long moment, puffing away. Then he pulled it from his lips and levelled Legolas with a stare. “You say you know how Dwarves love. Once only, and completely. You say Gimli had lost his love to you long before you had begun to court. So you did not… manipulate him into caring for you with pretty words and gifts.”

Legolas shook his head. “I knew my own heart was lost by Helm’s Deep, so thoroughly had he become the foremost and most beloved of all my thoughts. Yet we did not speak, for fear of offense. For whoever heard of an Elf loving a Dwarf? I could not lose him.”

“Did you know he loved you?”

“No.” Legolas looked torn for an instant. “I believed my chances to be hopeless, and I was wretched with it. But, Master Glóin, you must understand something of Elves: we too love once, if at all, and exceptions are rare.”

Glóin puffed away some more, his brows beetling.

“I still don’t like it,” he said. “But you tell me that it is done, and were I to step between you, I would only condemn you both to heartache – perhaps forever, in your case.”

“Perhaps forever, or perhaps to my death,” said Legolas, very quietly. “For there is one other thing you should be aware of. Elves have been known to die of lost love.”

Mizim gasped, and then she stood swiftly. “Right, I’m having no more of this growling from you, then,” she said to Glóin. “We’ll hold the wedding in a week. We’ll pay for the very best of everything: I’m not having Thranduil look down his nose at us. Damn, but there’s so much to do… must hire the Guild of Musicians, and we absolutely must get Barur Stonebelly on the feast. Decorations! I’ll talk to Alris, she’s a dab hand at making things stretch… The King to officiate, he’s kin and that should shut up any dissenters. Oh! Where can they go afterwards? We ought to set aside rooms for them, perhaps a new apartment…”

“Jewel!” Glóin managed, nearly swallowing his pipe in shock.

“No, I’m not having it, my old bear!” she snapped, and put her hands on her hips. “If you can’t see how much they love each other then you’re not the father I always took you to be!”

“What’s going on?” Gimli was in the doorway, Gimizh held upside-down in his arms. “What’s this?”

Mizim softened as she looked upon her son. “Heads up, you’re getting married, my lad.”

“I am? You will accept us?” Gimli looked staggered. Gimizh, his hair dangling everywhere, gawked. “Mum, thank you – but… Da, do you…”

Glóin pressed his fingers into his eyes. Without speaking, he nodded once, sharply.

“Dinner’s ready!” Bofur called. “Come an’ get it!”

…

Gimli raced through the corridors, absently noting all the changes. A crack in the roof here told of a boulder striking an unlucky place upon the Mountainside, a scorch-mark there spoke of a careless torch.

He reached his destination, and skidded on his heels. The branch that opened out into the Guild of Musicians was nearly empty, though there were the sounds of instruments at practice nearby. There was nobody in sight in the courtyard but two Dwarrowdams, sitting on the edge of the old fountain. Their heads were close together, and their hands were entwined: all in all, an intimate scene and Gimli felt that he’d interrupted a private moment.

They looked up as he arrived, and their eyes widened in recognition and shock.

“Gimli, you’re back!” cried Barís, standing. Next to her, the artisan Bani looked rather put out.

“Aye, hello Barís! I won’t be long,” he said, with all the apology he could.

Bani grunted. “Better not be.”

Barís stroked Bani’s corn-yellow hair with a sweet and secret smile, before turning to Gimli and giving him her full attention. “Is there something wrong? Why did you rush in here?”

“I’ve a work to commission,” he said, and scrabbled at his belt-pouch. “Um. An important one…”

“Let me guess, a wedding song?” said Bani, leaning back upon her elbows.

Gimli blushed.

Barís took the papers Gimli offered. “We’d be honoured,” she said, and then lifted a sheet to show some of Gimli’s scribblings: designs for the archer’s ring that Legolas now wore.

“Ahh, ignore that. The words are there, at the bottom. I’ve a tune, but I do not have your gift at orchestration,” Gimli said, pointing at the page.

“Hmm.” Barís’ eyes skimmed rapidly, and at some of the lyrics her eyebrows raised extremely high. “Elvish?”

“Well, I’m to marry an Elf,” Gimli said with a shrug. “Apparently the whole Mountain knows.”

“Glóin and Thranduil made a tremendous scene in the middle of court: of _course_ the whole Mountain knows,” said Bani, rolling her eyes.

“I think I can come up with something that might even impress the Elvenking,” said Barís, frowning. “The tune, hum it for me?”

Gimli gave her the verse and chorus, and she nodded and joined in half-way, her exquisite voice soaring over his bass rumble. “Yes, I can definitely work with this. When?”

He winced. “A week.”

“A week! That will cost you a pretty penny!” Bani said. “In a rush, are you?”

“No rush on our part. Say rather that we would like to put all obstacles behind us,” Gimli said, and scratched at his head. “The cost is no object. We have enough.”

“I’ll bet you do, after all your adventuring,” said Bani.

“Ach, that gained me no riches in gold. Plenty in riches of the heart, though.”

“I know the feeling,” said Barís, and she sent a sly little look over at Bani, who nearly leaned backwards into the fountain.

“Should I be congratulating you also?” said Gimli, amused.

“Some of us aren’t in such a mad hurry,” said Bani, sniffing.

“It will be done in a week,” Barís assured him. “Best get back before your old family frightens off the new!”

…

“You’ve created quite a mess, Gimli,” said Dís, with a sigh, as she tied off the braids at the crown of his head. “And for once it is not your hair, for it’s the neatest I’ve ever known it to be.”

“I know, Aunt Dís,” he groaned in reply. “But what could I do?”

She tugged at a bright red lock, rather sharply. “You could have waited. Impatient as the rest of us.”

“Well, at least I come by it honestly.”

“True enough.” She ran a hand over the fall of hair. “I can’t remember whether Kíli’s felt like this,” she said then. “It’s been so long.”

Thorin took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Frerin fumbled for his hand, and upon finding it, clasped it tightly.

“He had finer hair than I,” Gimli said after a moment. “Fíli was the one with the wiry hair, like me.”

“Ah, that is right.” Dís stroked Gimli’s cheek, and the only sound was the rasp of hair and the soft sound of their breath. Legolas shifted but did not speak, a tall and yet unobtrusive presence. 

“Aunt Dís?”

“Mmm?”

“I have something to tell you, but I am… afraid that you will not believe me.”

“Oh my maker, he’s not going to,” Frerin whispered, and through his own shock Thorin could feel him trembling.

Dis rolled her eyes. “Gimli, you returned hand-in-hand with an Elf. You have apparently ridden upon ships and walked the deepest reaches of Khazad-Dûm, and fought beside an army of ghosts…”

“Yes, yes,” Gimli interrupted, and he lifted his head from her knee. “But it is of ghosts I would speak now.”

She frowned.

“Oh no,” said Frerin, blankly.

“You’d better get the others,” Thorin murmured to him, and he nodded swiftly and vanished. “And you, inùdoy,” he said, turning to Gimli, “had best do a better job of it than you did with Aragorn!”

“All right, but let me do it in my own time,” Gimli grumbled. “I don’t need you interrupting me every two seconds!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Dís said, and there was concern in her eyes now. “Gimli, are you well?”

“Aye, perfectly well, Aunt Dís.” Gimli’s expression softened, and he rose to his knees and took her hands in his own. Her fingers looked very worn and thin and knobbly, clasped in his huge hard ones. “This will sound completely mad, but I must ask you to put aside your incredulity for a moment,” he said in all earnestness. “Do you recall the stories I told you of the Golden Wood?”

“The realm of the Elven queen, yes?” Dís leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “Gimli, did aught happen to you? You must tell me if you have been treated poorly, I would not have…”

“No, they were courtesy itself – or, eventually they were,” Gimli said, and he gave her an encouraging half-smile. “No, I came to no harm at the hands of the Elves of Lothlórien. It was in that wood that I learned one of the mysteries of this world: something I would tell you now. But you must swear to keep this secret.”

“What’s going on?” came Fíli’s voice from behind Thorin, followed by Kíli’s confused noise of answer.

“You need to be quiet, my boys,” said Víli softly. “I think I know.”

“He’s telling her,” Thorin said, and his throat was tight. “About us.”

Fíli’s hand immediately shot out and grasped Kíli’s. His youngest nephew was wide-eyed and marble-pale.

“Can he do that?” asked Frís weakly.

“Nothing stopping him, is there?” answered Víli staunchly.

“You all need to be silent, please,” Gimli said with a groan. “This is hard enough without all your commentary. I’ll pass on your words when I have given mine.”

Dis was properly alarmed now. “Gimli?”

He turned back to her, and squeezed her hands tightly. His face was as serious as Thorin had ever seen it. “In Lothlórien, I was given leave to peer into the Lady Galadriel’s mirror. It is a thing of great enchantment, a window into the past, present and future, a doorway into a myriad of possibilities. There, I saw something that made me question my own eyes.”

Gimli stopped, and wettened his lips with his tongue. His throat bobbed.

Then he managed, “I saw your brother. Aunt Dís, I saw our King. And I heard his voice. He has been watching over us since his fall.”

She tugged her hands from his, drawing away. Her mouth was open in wordless horror, and fury and sorrow battled in her eyes.

“Aunt Dís, please, I tell you true.” Gimli let his hands fall onto his knees. “He has walked every step of my journey by my side. I have learned to hear his words clearly – before the mirror, I thought him but my own thoughts. Please! I ask you, please put aside your disbelief, for the space of an hour.”

“I cannot believe you could be so cruel,” she spat at him, and Gimli bowed his head.

“I am not lying, Aunt Dís,” he said, soft as falling rain. “I swear it on my love. I swear it on my own name. Ask me. Anything you like, anything at all.”

“Get out,” she hissed.

“Oh Mahal,” Fíli groaned. “Gimli, don’t, you can’t go.”

“I know,” Gimli sighed. “But I sought to give her comfort, and I have only brought pain.”

“When you were three years old,” said Thráin, “you broke the leg of your mother’s table. You thought it the greatest feat ever, and laughed and laughed about it.”

Gimli repeated this, and Dís stood up, her nostrils flaring. “Dwalin could have told you that,” she said, her chest heaving. “Dain knew it, too. I have asked you to go: must I throw you out?”

“Then here is something that only one other living soul knows, namad,” Thorin said, and he stepped towards his sister. “Dohyarzirikhab.”

Gimli’s eyes went huge, and he choked, “I can’t repeat that!”

“You must.” Thorin smiled sadly at his champion. “You have to.”

Gimli took three gulping breaths, and then blurted it into the room. Then he clasped his hands over his mouth.

Dis stared at him, and then her knees gave out and she sat down heavily in her chair again. “He…”

Gimli shook his head, his hands still clamped over his mouth. “I won’t say it again!” he said, muffled.

“Who told you that, where did you find that?” she demanded. Her hands were trembling. “Who dared write that down?! You never heard that from any of us – did Fíli or Kíli tell you when you were small? They should have -”

“No, your brother just told me, just then, here in this room,” Gimli said, a trifle frantically. “I am sorry, I would not have done it like that-”

“I do not believe it.” Dís hunched in on herself. “I cannot believe it.”

Gimli ran a hand through his forelock, his teeth bared in frustration. “I cannot ask for more than that! What else is there that is deeper than his name? How can you believe me?”

Dis stared ahead, fury dancing in her dark eyes.

“Here’s something _nobody_ living knows,” said Frerin, and he lifted his stubborn chin, his shorn whispers sticking out at angles. “Nobody except Dís. Gimli, can you hear me?”

“Aye.”

“Then repeat after me: Abkundûrzud.”

Gimli closed his eyes and swore, his heavy shoulders slumping in defeat.

“You heard something new, just then,” Dís said, and her shaking hands curled into fists. “What was it.”

“Aunt Dís-”

“What was it.”

“It was your other brother, Frerin.” Gimli whispered miserably. “He told me his dark name, to give to you. Said that nobody alive still knew that one.”

“You can hear them all.”

Gimli opened his eyes and raised his face to her, imploring her without saying it: believe me, you must believe me. “Aye. All of them now.”

Dis’ lip curled. “Then what did my _centuries-dead_ brother say?”  

Gimli gnawed at his lip for a moment, his eyes flicking between Legolas and his aunt, and then he said, “A- Abkundûrzud.”

Her breath caught, and her hand slapped forward against Gimli’s shoulder to steady her. “That’s… that’s right,” she said, so quietly it was nearly inaudible. “That was his name.”

“Aunt Dís, they’re here,” Gimli said. He tentatively placed one of his hands over hers. “They truly are, all of them. I’ve learned so much about them. They’ve never left us, not really.”

“Are my sons there?” Dís said, and she did not react to Gimli’s hand over hers. She was as still and expressionless as a painting.

“Yes, we’re here, Mum we’re here!” Kíli shouted, and Fíli grabbed at his arm.

“You don’t need to shout, dimwit!”

Gimli huffed a laugh. “Aye, and arguing.”

“Of course they are,” she said, and her lip trembled. “I miss them so. Oh my children, my sons, how I miss you so.”

“We miss you too,” said Fíli and Kíli, in perfect unison.

“And my brothers, both my brothers,” she said, and her eyes were swimming in tears. “They are with you.”

“They’re often with me,” Gimli said, and he smiled. “I have learned to love them. Thorin has been a light to me.”

“Has he now,” said Dís. “Who else have you heard?”

“My uncle,” Gimli said. “Balin. Ori. Your parents.” He swallowed hard. “Dáin.”

She shuddered as though struck.

“I saw them, too, after we passed through the Paths of the Dead,” Gimli said, and he studied the tips of his fingers: rough from weather and his axe. “They looked unchanged, as though they hadn’t aged a single day.”

“I want to believe it,” Dís whispered.

“Believe it, Lady,” said Legolas. “I saw them in the lich-light of the Paths myself, clear as I see you now. I spoke to King Thorin. He charged me with a task.”

“A task?”

“To speak my heart,” Legolas said, and his faint, inscrutable Elven smile crossed his lips: the one that meant he was truly touched in the still places of his soul. “I have taken it as an oath ever since.”

“I hear Thorin best of all,” Gimli said, and he shifted a little. “His voice… it’s as clear as yours to me, as though he stands by my elbow. The others were harder to figure out. They’re… muffled, woolly, like the voice of sandstone. I got the trick of it in the end.”

“Can I hear them?”

Gimli looked up. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “It took the Mirror of Galadriel for me to discover them. Before, I thought Thorin was merely my own thoughts…”

“He has been with you so long, then?”

Gimli steeled himself. “Since Ered Luin.”

She gasped, low and raw. “Then…”

“He saw.”

“Then he knows how much I have raged at him,” she said, and her hand lifted, shaking, to rest upon Gimli’s thick-bearded cheek again. Her fingers carded through it. “He knows I have hated him.”

“And he doesn’t blame you,” Thorin said, and hung his head.

“Now, you stop it,” Gimli snapped. “Thorin, bloody well stop that right there. And Aunt Dís, yes, he knows. He has blamed himself more thoroughly than you can imagine.”

“Mum, we chose to go,” Kíli said, wringing his hands.

“Kíli says that they chose to go,” Gimli repeated.

“Tell my son he cannot choose to be living here and breathing by my side,” Dís growled.

“They can hear you,” Gimli said.

“Good.”

Fíli took a breath. “We love you, Mum.”

“Fíli says that they love you.”

“We all love you so much,” added Thorin. “And I am so sorry. I am forever sorry, my sister.”

“I should damned well hope you are sorry, Nadad,” Dís grated.

“I should never be forgiven,” Thorin whispered, and then Gimli scowled with such ferocity that Thorin took a step back.

“I must tell you, Aunt Dís, that I would not be living today if it were not for Thorin bloody Oakenshield, the damned stubborn noble self-sacrificing _ass,_ ” he growled. “I owe him my life many times over. I owe him my love returned. All my joys have had his hand in them. I have learned to smith under his tutelage, I escaped Moria because of his guidance! The list is endless, and I have not gratitude enough in my body. Yet still he persists--” here Gimli thumped his fist against his thigh, “—in speaking of himself as some sort of burden to me, as someone who is unworthy of care or forgiveness!”

Dis blinked, tears clinging to her lashes. Then she snorted loudly. “Of course he does. That is the most Thorin sort of thing I ever heard.”

“Dis, you have cursed my name,” Thorin began, but Dís was still talking.

“I have hated him, yes. But time and age wear upon resentment as water upon stone, and I cannot forever hate that which I love and miss so dearly. Tell him he is a stone-headed idiot, and I shall snatch his braids a million times from his head if he does not stop.”

Thorin had to clutch at Frerin for a moment, reeling. His heart felt light and untethered in his chest.

“Tell her,” Frís said, and she had to break off her words to get them out clearly, “tell her that we are so proud. So proud.”

“Your mother is proud,” Gimli said, and Dís’ chin dropped to her chest and her shoulders shook.

  
  
Dis, by [autistic-tauriel](http://autistic-tauriel.tumblr.com/post/153936412268/the-new-update-hit-me-hard-tbh)  


“I cannot play harp anymore,” she said.

“I don’t care a jot,” said Frís. “My beautiful daughter, our steely songbird. I’m so proud of you, darling.”

Dis nodded brokenly. Then she lifted her head and said, “Adad?”

“I’m here now, my sweet starling lass, and I’m well as I can be,” Thráin said. “I’ve missed you, we’ve all missed you. We’re here.”

And then there were a myriad of voices all clamouring to speak to their last sister, last child, their mother and cousin and friend.

There was one voice, however, that Thorin felt deserved to be heard above all others. “Tell her that Víli has never missed a single morning,” he bellowed over the din. It settled the others to some degree, and they fell to murmuring and glancing at Víli. “Tell her that he has spent every morning since his death by her side. Please. Gimli, please tell her that.”

Gimli was looking a trifle wild-eyed at the racket, but he nodded and passed it on.

“I’m here, my lark,” Víli said, and Frís wrapped an arm around him comfortingly. “I’ve always been here, love, I’ll always-”

“Víli,” she gasped, and her eyes were enormous.

“I’m here,” Víli said again, desperation in every syllable, and Thorin reached out to steady him. “My love. I’m always here. Always.”

Dis wept.

Legolas stood and then knelt down before the aged Dwarrowdam, his head tipping up and his hair hanging down in a sheet behind him. She could only weep further as he drew her into his arms and held her. Her body shook.

Gimli was grave as he moved away, his mouth drawn down. “I hope that may give you some comfort, in time, Aunt Dís,” he murmured.

“I – I -,” she managed, and clutched for him. He came easily, and Dís hugged both of them tightly in her withered arms, their heads pressed either side of her own.

“I’m not alone,” she gasped, over and over. “I’m not… _I’m not alone_.”

“You’re not alone,” Gimli promised her.

  
  
Gimli, Legolas and Dis - and drag the image for a surprise! by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/153947067640/im-not-alone-she-gasped-over-and-over-im)  


...

“Hey boss,” said Nori, poking his head around Fíli’s door. “They’ve arrived in Rivendell.”

“They have?” Fíli threw off his bedclothes, and scruffed at his hair. “Right, I’m up, I’m up. I’ll get Kíli, you meet us there.”

By the time Kíli had been badgered from his nice warm covers and crammed into his clothes, the hobbits had passed over the bridge into the Last Homely House. Fíli shook his head to clear the stars from his eyes, and focused upon Frodo, walking between Sam and Merry.

“He’s getting better sleep now, look at his eyes,” whispered Kíli.

The hobbits bade farewell to Elrond and Gandalf for the day, and Glorfindel gave them a cheery wave. “Later, in the Hall of Fire,” he told Pippin and Merry. “I’ll teach you a drinking game that Fingon once taught me!”

“First Age drinking games? See you then!” Pippin said, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

“First, we have something very important to do,” added Merry.

They did not stop to eat or bathe, but traipsed through the corridors with their carpet of red Autumn leaves. Rivendell was starting to feel empty already. They headed directly for an inner room, and there seated in a chair surrounded by papers and pens was a hunched old figure, white flyaway hair grown long and brushing his collar, nodding over his book.

He blinked awake as they approached, peaceful and sleepy. “Hullo, hullo! So you’ve come back? And tomorrow’s my birthday, too. How clever of you!”

“We know, Bilbo,” said Frodo gently, and he took the wizened old Hobbit’s hand. “Mine too.”

“So it is, so it is.” Bilbo yawned and then he patted the back of Frodo’s hand. “My boy. Do you know, I shall be one hundred and twenty-nine? And in one year more, if I am spared, I shall equal the Old Took. I should like to beat him; but we shall see.”

“You’ll do it,” said Merry stoutly.

“Well now, look here,” Bilbo said, blinking at the pair in their mail coats and cloaks, the insignias of Rohan and Gondor glinting upon their chests. “Growing up, aren’t you? But if you don’t finish growing up soon, you are going to find hats and clothes expensive.”

“But if you want to beat the Old Took,” said Pippin, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t try and beat the Bullroarer.”

“That’s a proper Took attitude,” said Bilbo, and his wrinkled face curled up in a smile. “I hear there’s a party tomorrow for my birthday. I’m still very punctual for meals, as a rule.”

“And that’s a proper Baggins attitude,” said Frodo, smiling back.

“Hmm, yes indeed. Looking at you, my boy, I wonder how much of the proper Baggins has been left to you,” Bilbo mumbled. Then he shook himself. “But tell me all about it! I must find clean paper and a pen: I don’t suppose you had any time to write it down, did you Frodo-lad?”

“No, Bilbo.”

“Pity, pity.” Bilbo patted his pockets and drew out a pen, before looking up at the four expectantly. “Begin at the beginning! I’ve got the ending already: a proper happy one all round, as it should be.”

So they sat around the fire and told him in turn about their adventures and journeys, but Bilbo soon nodded off. At first he would pretend to take notes, and then he would slump over his little lap-desk and begin to snore.

Then he would startle awake and say loudly, “How splendid! How wonderful! But where were we?” and the four Hobbits would have to begin again from where he had fallen asleep.

One time after waking, he asked, to Fíli’s great alarm, “Now where were we? Yes, of course, giving presents. Which reminds me: what’s become of my ring, Frodo, that you took away?”

“I have lost it, Bilbo dear,” said Frodo, very carefully. “I got rid of it, you know.”

“What a pity!” said Bilbo, and the look on his face was not anger, as Fíli had feared. Instead it was something akin to a pout. “I should have liked to see it again. But no, how silly of me! That’s what you went for, wasn’t it: to get rid of it? But it is all so confusing, for such a lot of other things seem to have got mixed up with it: Aragorn’s affairs, and the White Council and Gondor, and the Horsemen, and Southrons, and oliphaunts - did you really see one, Sam? - and caves and towers and golden trees, and goodness knows what besides.”

“Why’s your hair so long, Bilbo?” Frodo asked after their birthday party, as Bilbo nursed a little glass of cordial in his rooms after the celebration.

“Oh that.” Bilbo touched it with gnarled fingers. “Bit of an odd fancy. I’ve no wish to cut it. There’s a special braid, a very special braid, that has to go into it. But,” and Bilbo looked down at his knobbled hands, “I can’t put it in now, sad to say.”

“What sort of braid,” said Frodo, a note of suspicion in his voice. “Bilbo?”

Bilbo sighed. “It was a long time ago, my boy.”

Frodo leaned his head against Bilbo’s shoulder, and together they watched the fire crackle.

“Does Thorin know about this… development, d’you suppose?” asked Nori.

“I’ll wager my new belt-knife that he does,” said Kíli. “Seen Thorin’s beard lately?”

“Shh,” said Fíli, watching the two Ring-bearers closely.

“I travelled with a Dwarf,” said Frodo. The fire was very warm. “I learned a little bit about their lands and ways. You were right, uncle. I met Wizards and Elves and Men and even Dwarves - and small can make a very big difference.”

“My dear Frodo,” murmured Bilbo, and he squeezed Frodo’s hand. “I can hear what you’re not saying: I’m not so muddled as that. Yes, it was a Dwarf. Yes, he died.”

Frodo looked up at his uncle. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Bilbo heaved a contented breath, and hugged Frodo closer. His old voice was very drowsy. “There’s more things in life and death, my boy, than we can ever understand. I lost him, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt, and I was angry and sad and I buried myself to stop it from hurting, for terrible long years. But now I remember that I loved him and love him still, and that brings me peace. No loss we must suffer is greater than love.”

Frodo’s eyes were very dark and full of pain as he stared into the flames. “I hope so.”

Bilbo cuddled him ever closer. “Come now, let’s curl up and have a little nap, just as we used to in Bag End when the winter drew in, eh? The fire’s very cosy here, and the food’s very good, and there are Elves when you want them. What more could one want?”

Frodo closed his eyes, and the tension bled from his limbs. Presently, Bilbo began to sing softly, his querulous voice cracking here and there.

The Road goes ever on and on  
Out from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road has gone,  
Let others follow it who can!

Let them a journey new begin,  
But I at last with weary feet  
Will turn towards the lighted inn,  
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

And as Bilbo murmured the last words his head dropped on his chest and he slept soundly.

…

It began with the slow, soft plucking of fiddles and viols in rhythmic pulses.

[ [Light on the Horizon, performed and composed by determamfidd]](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/153932425603/light-on-the-horizon-from-sansukh-chapter-45-here)

The room was packed to the rafters: all of Erebor had turned out to see this wedding. Thorin craned his head to see the musicians gathered upon the upper gallery. There were strings both high and low, curled horns and crumhorns and a silver trumpet, a harpist and drums, and a full choir at least forty members strong. Barís Crystaltongue was standing at the conductor’s podium, her hands raised.

Around him, every Dwarf of the Halls had crammed themselves into the great Audience chamber, it seemed. Frerin and Óin, Dáin and Balin and Narvi and Frís, Thráin and Hrera and Thrór were there. Nori, Ori and Bifur and Bombur stood close together, and Fíli and Kíli were clutching each other in their excitement. The sadness in Kíli’s eyes was overshadowed by the joy.

Haban was already in tears, and Groin was holding her gently. Fundin and Dwerís were near, as was Náin, Daerís and Nar. Lóni and Frár were holding hands. Náli was blowing his nose on his sleeve.

The choir began to sing, a sweet and quiet susurration that filled the room.

“This is his song, the one we wrote,” Thorin said in realisation, and sucked in a breath. The soft voices whispered into the air, the words echoing in the corners of the Mountain.

 The King stood. At his side, Bomfrís nodded to Dwalin and Orla, and they nodded back and flung open the doors.

The moonlight blazed into the heart of the Mountain, reflected by many mirrors and illuminating the room in a pale silvery shimmer.

 

_Though my heart may be heavy,_  
_Though I wander afar,_  
_I will come to the morning  
_ _Over sea and under star._

 

_Where you go there will I follow,_  
_For you are my guiding star._  
_I will never fear tomorrow.  
_ _There is comfort where you are._

 

Gimli and Legolas made their way to the King, and he gestured for them to kneel. They were an odd and disparate sight: Gimli broad and thickset in his rich blues and bronze, his formal jewellery clasped in hair and beard and upon his ears and nose. Legolas was a shaft of light clad in silver-grey, and the ring on his finger winked in the moonlight like a star itself.

What the King said to them, none could hear except Gimli and Legolas – and Bomfrís, who smirked, her arms folding over her belly. Gimli laughed and Legolas smiled, and then they clasped their hands together and turned to face each other.

And all the while, the slow soft pulse of the music kept beating, beating like a heart.

 

_Though the starlight is fading (I am lost in the dark),_  
_Though the night gathers fast (take my hand)._  
_There’s a new world awaiting (with you here by my side)  
_ _Lay your burden down at last (at last)._

 

_There’s a light on the horizon,_  
_There’s a voice that calls my name,_  
_There’s a place that I belong,  
_ _There’s an ever-burning flame._

 

“What is this music,” said Thranduil, seated at the front of the gathering, stiff as a corpse. His eyes were very wide. The choir’s voices swelled in wordless unison, like a wave of sound that tugged at the shore.

Glóin gave him an opaque look. “Gimli wrote it.”

Thranduil sank down in his chair. His breath was shuddering through his lips.

“The words, that is.” Glóin amended.

The harp rang out like crystal droplets striking ice, and the choir sang on.

 

_Far from hope and from home (far from all that I knew),_  
_Full of sorrow and fear (_ meleth nîn  
_You are never alone ( ghivashelê I’m near, I am near)  
_ _I will always be here (I am here)._

_Out of dark to the day’s rising,_  
_Death itself will I defy,_  
_For the road goes ever on,  
_ _To your arms will I fly._

 

Stonehelm then instructed Gimli to place the final braid in Legolas’ hair, and Legolas to put his own into Gimli’s beard. Their arms twined as they reached for the other.

“The words,” breathed Laindawar. His voice dropped until it was nearly swallowed by the soft sound of the music. The heartbeat continued to pulse through the Mountain, raising goosepimples upon Thorin’s arms. “The words, Adar – the words – he loves him _so much._ ”

“No. It is not the tale of two individuals alone,” choked Thranduil. “It is… it is a tale of what they have seen, the tale of all that walked alongside them. What they saw, what they learned. This is bigger than Elf and Dwarf. This – this must be what Legolas sees in him, and what we could not.”

Mizim reached over and patted Thranduil’s knee, motherly and kind. “It’s all right,” she said gently. “We’re used to that. You’re seeing him now.”

Laerophen could not speak, as he was already crying. Gimizh was too, his little face blotchy. The lower strings began to chime with the higher, the viols rumbling.

 

_I was worn, I was weary ( annon ûr, nîn angin),_  
_With suspicion and shame ( Âzyungel),_  
_Now I stand in the sunlight (now I stand in the light)  
_ _And my heart it calls your name (and my heart calls your name)._

_And the road takes me onward,_  
_Takes me far from my door._  
_Never now will I falter,  
_ _Since you taught me how to soar._

 

Mizim took Glóin’s hand. “Proud of you, old bear,” she whispered.

Glóin sniffled. His eyes were suspiciously shiny. “Yes, well.”

 

_I will wait for you forever,_  
_I will be here when you call,_  
_And if ever you should stumble,  
_ _I will catch you if you fall._

 

Gimli let the new braid fall, and then cupped Legolas’ face in his great hands. He was smiling uncontrollably as he pressed their heads together, waiting for Legolas to complete the complicated seven-strand braid in his beard. Legolas too, was smiling in helpless joy. He seemed to glow from within, radiating pure happiness.

“Are you crying?” Frerin murmured.

“Yes, and so are you,” Thorin retorted.

“And so am I,” sniffled Bilbo. “It’s so terribly beautiful. Blast it, I still don’t have a handkerchief!”

“Oh Mahal, they’re done!” gasped Haban, and the drums began to shatter the air as Gimli and Legolas stood and turned to the crowd, hands joined, faces blushing brightly. The choir burst into thunderous song, and Barís’ voice soared above the rest: unearthly, soul-piercing.

 

_There’s a light on the horizon,_  
_There’s a ship upon the sea,_  
_Now the world is so much wider,  
_ _For you wander it with me._

 

“I recognise a few of those lyrics,” murmured Bilbo.

 Thorin smiled. “As you should, idùzhib. I helped him.”

 Bilbo shot him a look, which quickly softened into helpless adoration. “Oh, you soft silly Dwarf,” he said. "The feeling is entirely mutual."

 

_And the sun shines out the clearer,_  
_Golden glory in the blue!_  
_There’s a light on the horizon,  
_ _And it’s guiding me to you._

 

The fiddles span into a rapturous frenzy, and the trumpets called, bright and jubilant, making the air judder. Glóin was the first on his feet to rush to them, his arms outstretched. “Get _down_ here, you damned tall- ” he said shakily, and he clung around the necks of both his sons. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he could be heard to say, “be welcome, my lad. You’re ours now, and I’m not one to let go. I’m so sorry... oh be happy, be happy for all your days!”

 “Legolas.”

The Elf straightened out of Glóin’s suddenly loose arms, his eyes trained on his father.

Thranduil looked at him, and his face was full of anguish. The shadow of a terrible scar could just be made out upon one cheek. “He loves you."

“He does,” said Legolas proudly.

“Beyond death, I will love him,” said Gimli, equally proud.

“Then I must,” Thranduil stopped and his eyes flickered to the Stonehelm. “I have been strong, ionneg – strong enough to shatter. I must learn to bend.”

Laerophen gasped and half-stood in amazement.

Thranduil’s eyes snapped back to Legolas. A tear, like the memory of a white gem, could be seen to trickle down his face. “Will you teach me?”

Legolas could only rush forward and fling his arms around his father. 

The choir subsided as the tremendous song began to draw to a close, though Barís’ last note still hung in the air like a struck bell. The echoes chased each other until you could not make out their beginning nor their end. Then, like a sigh, they faded altogether, leaving only their lingering promise behind.

 

…

 

(TBC)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Azaghîth – little warrior  
> Sansûkhul – of pure and perfect sight  
> Gimizh – wild one  
> Haban – Gem  
> Mizim – Jewel  
> Mahumb – droppings  
> Idùzhib – diamond  
> Nadad – brother  
> Namad – sister  
> Nadadith - little brother  
> Namadith – little sister  
> âzyungelê – Love of all loves  
> ghivashelê – Treasure of all treasures.  
> Inùdoy - son  
> Baruk Khazâd – The axes of the Dwarves! (war cry)  
> Amad – mother  
> Adad – father  
> Magashrûn – he who is (or has been) taught i.e. student  
> Abkundûrzud – Dawning Sun  
> Dohyarzirikhab – Anvil of Hope
> 
> ... 
> 
> **Sindarin**  
>  Elen nin – my star  
> Meleth nin – my love  
> Adar – father  
> Ionneg – son  
> Honeg nin – my brother  
>    
> ...
> 
> Some words taken from the chapter, ‘Many Partings.’
> 
> Fingon – High King of the Noldor during the First Age. 
> 
> The song is my own work - though you will most certainly recognise some of the lyrics! I hope you enjoy it :) 
> 
> ...  
>    
>  **Thank you SO SO SO MUCH for reading and kudosing and reviewing - I really am just so stunned, constantly and eternally stunned and grateful. THANK YOU SO SO MUCH!!!**


	46. Chapter Forty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover-text has been added to this chapter! You can hover your mouse over the Khuzdul/Sindarin for a translation :)
> 
> TW! PLEASE NOTE: there is an offscreen birth in this chapter. We don't see it/hear any details, but it is happening in the next room. Please be aware of this, and take care if this is something you find daunting, squicky or triggering to read.
> 
> I can't actually link all the pics and fics anymore, it's just too daunting!!! So [here is the awesome and ever-lengthening Sansukh Masterpost of masterposts](https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/sansukh-masterpost) \- enjoy getting lost in all the incredible artwork, fanfic, music, podfic and more!
> 
> I cheerfully admit that I get lost in those for _hours_ :D 
> 
> Onwards!

“So you are telling me,” said the Stonehelm, very slowly, “that the Dwarrowdam who served my father as his guard was in fact _Queen of the Blacklocks._ ”

Ashkar shrugged and took a sip of wine. “Rightfully, this is so.”

“She was deposed,” added Kara.

Orla herself was sitting stiffly to attention. Her face was set and her eyes glittered with a dozen emotions, but she made no sound at all. Dwalin was holding her hand.

“Strictly speaking, her mother was assassinated, and Orla was framed for the deed,” Ashkar said, frowning at Kara. “But the exact technical details mean little.”

Watching, Balin huffed into his beard and nudged Thorin with his elbow. “Did you know about this?”

“Some,” Thorin admitted. “But not much.”

“So the current Queen is a pretender?” The Stonehelm turned to Orla and raised his eyebrows. “Orla?”

If anything, Orla’s back stiffened even further, and Dwalin shifted closer to her. “Look, it’s been difficult for her,” he said, in what was probably the understatement of the Age. “She hasn’t spoken about all this in decades.”

“I do not want the throne of the Ghomali court,” she said. “My home is here, in Erebor. I will not return.”

“There’s many who would rejoice to hear that you live,” said Ashkar gently. “We did.”

Orla’s eyes slid shut, and her jaw worked as she swallowed. Then she nodded. “I know. But there are also those who would work great evil against me and mine, and I will not have that.”

“Why depose you in the first place, though?” Gimli said, tipping his head. “Why put your sister on your throne?”

“Good question,” murmured Balin.

“Because The Cult couldn’t use Queen Ara nor her first daughter, Orla, but they found the second more malleable. My mother Arna wanted to please, above all things,” said Kara, bitterness twisting her voice. “The Cult of Sauron used that. Now she is completely under their thumb, lost in the haze of their words and drugs. I honestly don’t think she knows my name, most days.”

Orla’s shoulders hunched, and her eyelids squeezed tight. Her breath escaped her in a soundless shudder.

“But Sauron is dead now,” Gimli said, and indicated Legolas and himself. “We can attest to that. So what do they have to gain from promoting his worship?”

“Power, what else?” said Thranduil, shaking his head. “I fear that undoing his works will be the labour of many Ages yet.”

“Dwarves are not afraid of hard work,” said the Stonehelm firmly, a hint of his Iron Hills burr in his voice. “And this will be long, and hard. They have held the realm for more than fifty years in the name of their puppet, and their dominance will be well-established. Still, they must know by now that the Dark Power is overthrown. That will drive them into disorganisation and despair.”

Orla’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowed. “I will not be an instrument in any plans you devise. I will not be a figurehead for you.”

The Stonehelm sighed. “That is not what I am suggesting. Orla, I would never do such a thing to you! I have received my own throne in a war, unwilling and too soon: would I wish the same on a friend?”

Dwalin glowered under his brows, and his muscles bunched in warning. “Just so’s that’s understood, then. Yer Majesty.”

“I do not want them to know I live,” said Orla, and she turned to face Ashkar and Kara. Her words were halting as she spoke, as though she were assembling thoughts that had lain asunder for years upon years. “My life is my own to risk. But I have sons. I have a home, and a people I have chosen, and I have fought and bled with them, and for them. I will not relinquish them, nor put them in danger.”

“Like to see ‘em try it,” growled Dwalin.

“I wouldn’t,” said Ashkar bluntly. “You may be formidable in war, I do not doubt, but the Cult uses weapons other than steel. They will uphold one belief and perform another openly and before all, profess their decency and respect whilst tearing you apart with their slippery words – and when words have served their purpose and all opposition is disgraced and terrified, ah! Then! Then the steel emerges.”

“The question of whether we confront them is not under discussion,” said the Stonehelm wearily. “We cannot fight another war, on such a distant front, so soon.”

“Then what can we do?” Kara said, and she wrung her hands. Her face was tired beyond her young years. “Aunt Orla-”

“It is not my home any longer,” said Orla, kindly but with absolute finality.

“But it is _my_ home!” Kara burst out. “And you could save it!”

“No, child,” she said, and reached out to lay a hand upon Kara’s shoulder, catching and holding her gaze. “No, I do not think I am the one destined to do that.”

Kara’s lip quivered as she stared at her aunt, and then she lowered her head. “I had hoped…” she said brokenly.

Thorin gnawed on his lip and tugged at the plait in his beard, his feelings torn. “Does she not feel a responsibility to her people?” he muttered. “Does she not wish to seek her birthright?”

Balin gave him a sympathetic glance. “Not everyone is _you,_ my friend.”

“I know, I _know_ ,” Thorin said. “And she has forged her own path after losing so much, enduring so much, and I do understand why she would not risk the happiness she has found nor the others in her life…”

“But it would not be your way.” Balin’s smile was wry. “Never a choice in your mind, remember? Not so for her.”

“One person cannot defeat the Cult of Sauron,” Orla was saying. “I tried before, and I lost everything.”

“If any could do it, I’d lay my coin on you,” said Dwalin staunchly. She let out a quiet huff of amusement.

“Not helping, dear.”

“I think that the defeat of the Cult of Sauron must belong not to one, but to many,” said Ashkar. Then they laughed sourly. “That is, if it can be done at all, homeless and hopeless as we are.”

“You are welcome here,” said the Stonehelm. “For as long as you need sanctuary. You are not friendless.”

“And the rest of our people? For there are many living in fear,” said Ashkar. Their eyes were shrewd as they rested upon the King. The Stonehelm grimaced, but nodded.

“Aye, them too. It’ll be a tight squeeze, no doubt…”

“No, we cannot make ourselves such a target,” said Orla, standing up swiftly. “The Cult will insinuate that Erebor is seeking an Empire – that the Longbeards intend to assimilate and colonise the Orocarni by holding Blacklock Dwarves as _hostages_ , rather than taking in refugees! They will find their excuse for a war, no matter what you do. And they will paint us as the aggressors. You thought those Dalemen were vicious liars? They were children compared to the Cult of Sauron.”

The Stonehelm ran a hand through his hair. “We can see them off, as we did before…”

“So soon after the last lot?” Dwalin looked torn. “I hate t’ say it, lad…”

“We beat their armies, didn’t we?”

“Not really,” Dwalin said, very reluctantly. “They left when Mordor fell. If the Ring hadn’t been destroyed, we’d have starved to death by now.”

“And look at the cost of victory,” snapped Orla. “Dale is a ruin, two peoples lost their kings – our dead fill our tombs – there was fire and treachery in the very heart of the Mountain!”

“They can’t do it,” Balin whispered. “Erebor is too weak, too exposed…”

“I won’t leave these Dwarves living in tyranny and fear, with nowhere to go!” said the Stonehelm, slamming his hand against his thigh. “My father said it once, and I will say it again: we are a people who lose their homes, century after century, and I will not see it repeat itself henceforth! These are meant to be days of peace, of rebuilding, free of the Shadow at last! When do we say ‘enough’? Where can they seek refuge, if not here? Our homes are their homes: I will hear no argument, and I will not support any inaction that will see Dwarrows fleeing into the wilderness once more, alone and rejected. We must give them our aid. We must find another way.”

“But where?” said Dwalin in frustration. “We’re exhausted! Not the Iron Hills either, they’re too barren to support more mouths, and they too are exposed to the Northern trade routes…”

“Blue Mountains? You can’t get further from the East than that,” suggested the Stonehelm, but his voice was dubious.

“Oh, even better, ask ‘em to settle an abandoned and crumbling ruin, half a world away,” sneered Dwalin.

“The Cult would accuse us of slavery and exploitation, it would be used to fuel their propaganda,” said Orla, with a jerk of her head. “It’d be added to the list of justifications for attacking us: the outrage over the conditions there would unite many people against us. Ered Luin is out of the question.”

“Aglarond,” said Legolas, suddenly.

The word fell across the argument like a granite slab, rendering all silent with confusion. Gimli gasped, and Thranduil tipped his head, his expression thoughtful. His eyes rested on Gimli with piercing curiosity.

“The… place, with the caves. In Rohan,” he said.

“Aye, though calling them ‘the place with the caves in Rohan’ is doing them a vast disservice,” Gimli said, eagerly leaning forward. “My king, it’s perfect – the White Mountains are ringed all about by the Lands of Men, and we can call upon the Horse-Lords and upon Gondor to aid us if needed!”

“It is closer to Umbar than we are,” said Orla, but her face was clearing as she mulled it over. It seemed that the idea was to her liking.

“True enough, but there’s no clear route from the East.” Gimli stood and began to pace, gesticulating with his broad hands as he thought aloud. “We’re in direct line to the East here in Erebor, and only the Iron Hills stand between us and them, and they could go around those, quite easily. Whereas the Glittering Caves!”

“That’s right,” Legolas agreed. “There’s the whole of Mordor in the way, to begin with – the Towers of the Teeth, and then the River Anduin…”

“Osgiliath and Gondor…!” Gimli said, pouncing on this with some enthusiasm. “And if by some miracle they get through Aragorn and Faramir, they’d have to sneak past Meduseld unseen, which from that vantage point is nigh-on impossible! We’d have the fortress of Helms Deep to use as a base for our fortifications…”

“After some renovation, I should hope,” Legolas said drily.

“Hush you, cheeky Elf, I’m thinking.” Gimli grinned at Legolas.

“As it happens so rarely, I apologise for the interruption,” Legolas murmured, and Gimli snorted and waved that aside.

“I’ll deal with _that_ comment later. But this is a very good idea. Aglarond is a new place, a new home, and belongs to no clan. We could build it together. Surrounded by allies and in a heavily defensible valley, we could easily shelter any refugees of the Orocarni who are fleeing the death-throes of the Cult.”

“Look at Thranduil,” said Balin, and Thorin glanced over at the Elvenking. He was watching Gimli with unconcealed intensity now, as though absorbing his every word and movement for later study.

“This is all sounding very fine,” said Ashkar in a dry voice, “but how are you going to let _them_ know that, without letting the Cult know?”

“Oh, I suspect the Cult will know, almost immediately.” Gimli waved that away. “That’s another problem. The first problem is to let _anyone_ in the East know. And the second is to convince them that our intentions are good.”

Ashkar looked surprised. “What?”

Gimli snorted. “Well, you wanted nothing to do with me at first, eh? A Northern Dwarf, a Longbeard. Gondor and the West meant nothing good to you: it meant slavery, slaughter and dominion. Such is the fruit of the history between you. Were I to walk into the Ghomali court tomorrow and make my offer, it would not be long before the Cult tried to twist my words into these foul, miserable shapes of old. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” said Kara flatly, before Ashkar could answer.

“Then we find a way to make our offer, and then we find a way to make it believed,” Gimli said, and he rubbed his hands together. “The rest is not up to us, but to them. Ach, I need a pipe. Thinking on a knotty problem always goes better with a smoke, as Sam says!”

The small gathering disbanded shortly after.  The King was fiddling idly with one of the boar-tusks by his cheek as he debated with Dwalin. Kara watched her Aunt depart with the light of betrayal in her eyes. For her part, Orla did not allow her mien to crack as she left the room. However, she did lay her hand gently upon her niece’s shoulder for a moment. “Burushruka igbulul e, namadul,” she murmured as she passed. “I cannot be the bearer of all your hopes. I have my own life, and I will not sacrifice it to live out the dreams of others. I have too much to lose.”

Kara only let out a bitter sigh. Ashkar watched this with calculating eyes, their mouth pursed speculatively, before they followed Orla out.

Legolas was muttering with Gimli over the wisdom of his plan, the pair arguing easily and comfortably before the fire. Gimli’s pipe was unlit in his hand as he used it to gesticulate, expounding upon some point or another.

“…agents amongst them, surely…”

“Nonsense! You misunderstand the nature of the offer! Why should refugees wish to harm those who show only goodwill and offer nothing but help?”

“Would not some Dwarves feel slighted, having so many Blacklock Dwarves in the West?”

“We’re all bloody  _ Dwarves.  _ If any of ‘em get jealous and nasty I’ll sort them out,” Gimli growled. “It’s not so very long ago that we were ousted from our homes, fleeing into the world with naught but our names to call our own. I’ll just remind them of that.”

“With your axe, if necessary, I assume,” Legolas added drily.

“If it’s needed, aye!”

“And can you fight the whole world, Master Dwarf?” said Thranduil quietly, lifting his head. Thorin only then noticed that the Elvenking had not left with the others, but remained seated in his chair by the fire.

Gimli glanced over at Thranduil, before his brows furrowed. “No, I cannot,” he admitted. “Nobody can.”

Thranduil tilted his chin, studying him. “I have not met many of your kind who admit it.”

Legolas snorted, as though muffling a laugh.

Gimli raised an eyebrow at him, and Legolas only smiled. Then Gimli turned back to the Elvenking and paused, as though carefully considering his words.

“I know this must seem a foolhardy proposition to you,” he said in measured tones. “But it is not. I swear to you, I do not put myself or my people in danger by suggesting this. Extending goodwill to others breeds goodwill in return: I have seen it time and again in our travels, and I have been on both sides of the exchange. I will never forget standing amongst the trees of Lothlorien - footsore, heartsore and surrounded by suspicion and disdain, a stranger and a Dwarf. For there it was that I found friendship and understanding from the strangest and most unexpected of quarters.”

Thranduil’s eyes were unblinking. “The Lady Galadriel?”

“Nay.” Gimli grinned at Legolas. “Though she was first.”

“I will forever be slightly jealous that she saw you true before I did; your travelling companion and fellow at arms,” Legolas said, and he caught Gimli’s hand up and rubbed the heavy ring upon his finger.

“Daft lad,” said Gimli, soft and tender. “No need for that.”

“Surely you will end up taking in agents of the Cult of Sauron through such largesse,” said Thranduil. “When Aglarond could belong only to you and yours, why risk such a threat within your very halls?”

“Aye, no doubt a few will make the long and perilous journey to try to stir up sedition against us.” Gimli shrugged. “But fewer, I think, than you are expecting. Why should they leave a stronghold that is within their power to go where they are surrounded by foes, to work upon a home they do not feel in their heart? No, I doubt there will be many, and those there are will quickly be confronted; either by the evidence of their eyes, or by their fellows who want no more of fear and tyranny in their lives.”

“Ashkar’s and Orla’s story held more hints, also,” said Legolas, his eyes thoughtful. “It seems that the people of the Ghomali, on the whole, wish to be rid of the Cult. They simply cannot gain enough of a foothold to rise up against them: their plans go awry, and false accusations are levelled at their most influential leaders. Given enough time, in a place free of such lies and spies and propaganda, the Blacklock Dwarves may devise a way to win against their stranglehold.”

“There, that’s more positive,” Gimli said, beaming. “And if that’s all we can do to help, then that’s all we can do. But as my King said, we cannot do nothing.”

“I do not hold out much optimism,” said Thranduil. Balin huffed sourly.

“That does not surprise anyone in the slightest, ye tall miserable streak o’-” he muttered.

“Wasn’t it you who berated me for not holding my tongue in front of this self-same Elf?” said Thorin mildly.

Balin grunted and hunched into his beard, glowering.

“We fought for the world, Adar,” said Legolas, and the look he gave his father was intense and private. “We fought for all of it. Not only the West.”

“You were arguing in my own vein before I spoke,” Thranduil said, his eyebrows arched.

“We do that.” Gimli squeezed Legolas' hand. “Bickering, Aragorn called it.”

“He called it some less pleasant names also, if you recall,” Legolas said. “There were… insinuations.”

“Not in front of your  _ father,  _ Ghivashelê!” Gimli hissed.

“The point is,” Legolas said, turning back to Thranduil and smiling a bit too brightly, “that yes, we argue, and quite a lot at that. Sometimes we argue simply for the joy of the argument, for the way words may tussle and challenge. Sometimes it is more serious, but between us we are more than capable of a solution to whatever problem it is.”

“Dwarves like an argument,” Gimli added. “It’s a bit of a competition, you might say.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Thranduil said, and was that a glint of resigned amusement in his eye? Thorin found him impossible to read. “And whom do you propose should lead this… project?”

Gimli shared a quick look with Legolas, before squaring his shoulders. “Me. I would do it.”

“It would keep you in Rohan for long months.” Thranduil’s face was intent. “Legolas has told me of his plans for the wilds of Ithilien. You would not consent to be parted by the wishes of your family, but you would volunteer of your own accord?”

“Aye.” Gimli tugged at his beard – smoothed and oiled, glinting in the torchlight – and pulled a face. “Not happily. But I would never stand in the way of anything Legolas wants. I tried that once: didn’t work.”

“Stubborn dwarf,” Legolas said, laughing.

“You’re as stubborn as any Dwarf alive or dead, contrary Elf,” Gimli retorted. “Nay, I am the best one to undertake such an endeavour, and it’s not hubris that tells me so. I have the fast friendship of Rohan and Gondor, and I am well-known as a scion of the Line of Durin, so the Western Dwarves will follow my lead. Furthermore, I am kin by marriage to Orla Longaxe, and both Kara and Ashkar have shown that they can trust my word.”

“You will have no heir.”

“Pfft, I have an heir already, though the very Mountain shudders at the thought.” Gimli grinned, and his eyes twinkled at Legolas. “My sister’s son is a bright and friendly lad. I believe you've met.”

“The one who listens at keyholes and eats all the grapes?” Thranduil’s mouth dropped open slightly. Then it snapped shut. “Well. It shall be an… interesting stewardship.”

“That sounds like him. My rascally little ruffian, jewel of my eye! I’ll have to start training Gimizh up, of course… that is, if my sister doesn’t scream bloody murder at the idea. Doubt she will, though. She’s despaired of Gimizh ever finding something to steady him. He’s curious and intelligent, persistent as a cough and as brave as a whole sack of badgers. So there’s that.”

“Hmm.” Thranduil pursed his lips, and then stood. “You have given this matter more thought than I had supposed.”

“Adar?” said Legolas, watching as his father drained his wineglass and made ready to leave.

“Ú, ion nîn,” Thranduil said in his soft, controlled voice. “I find your choice of husband more understandable as the days pass. I will be returning to Eryn Lasgalen upon the change of the moon. I would welcome you both as you journey south again. I would hear more of your plans, Lord Gimli.”

“Just Gimli,” said Gimli, his face slack and stunned at what he had heard.

“No.” Thranduil smiled humourlessly at the Dwarf. “No, those were the plans and words of a Lord. I would do well not to forget it.”

And the Elvenking gave a shallow, sinuous bow towards them both, before sweeping out of the room in a swirl of silver robes.

“What on Mahal’s good earth…?” said Gimli, turning to Legolas in complete bafflement. “Legolas, your father seems to make an amusement of being utterly confusing.”

“Yes, he does,” said Legolas, and he shook his head in defeat. “That was acceptance, meleth nîn. He approves of both your course of action, and of you. I think you have made him consider a few things in a different light.”

“Me? Balderdash. My King was the one who did all the shouting,” Gimli waved that away with a flip of his hand. “Ah, but he left his wine-carafe behind! Well, seeing as we have the room and a tipple to ourselves, Kurdulê, would you like to find a better way to pass the time than chewing over politics?”

“My Lord Gimli, I would like nothing better,” Legolas said, beaming, his long legs unfolding with eager awkwardness.

“Time to beat a polite retreat, I feel,” Thorin murmured to Balin.

“Way ahead of you, Laddie,” came Balin’s fervent voice, the starlight already obscuring him from view.

… 

“Anything new?”

Thorin looked up from his drafting table. Bilbo was seated across from him, his elbows leaning against the tarnished wood, and his face curious as he peered at Thorin’s drawings. “Not very much. Some new ideas, some new designs,” Thorin said, and straightened. His back was slightly sore from remaining hunched for so long, and his eyes ached from focusing in the sputtering candlelight. “Anything new with you?”

“Frodo and the boys left a week ago,” Bilbo sighed, scratching at his head. “It’s quiet without them, but I can’t say I dislike the quiet, at my age. I miss him, though. Even though just  _ looking  _ at him made my entire soul weep…”

“They’ll be safe. Gandalf is with them.”

“It’s not that.” Bilbo lowered his eyes. “It’s… oh, it’s difficult to explain. Show me what you’re working on?”

“It’s not finished,” Thorin protested, but Bilbo was already squinting at the page.

“It’s very pretty,” said Bilbo, turning his head this way and that, “but I’m sorry to say that I don’t understand a lick of it. What is it?”

Thorin smiled and span the papers around. “Curious creature, it was upside down. There. Now what do you think it is?”

“I’m too old for guessing games and riddles now,” Bilbo complained, but he bent his head to the designs once more anyway. Then he sucked in a quick breath. “Is that…”

“Aye.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Bilbo softly. “I wish I could wear it.”

“My inspiration was entirely your fault, and so I must extend the compliment back to you,” said Thorin, and he blew gently over the blueprint to clear away the erasings. “I wish I could see it on your finger also.”

“What brought this on?” Bilbo’s expression was slightly misty as he looked up from the drawings and met Thorin’s eyes. “Why now?”

“Why not?” Thorin smoothed out the paper, and then tsked and took up his ball of wax and scrubbed hard at the charcoal markings. “Mistake, wait a moment, I will fix that…”  

“Thorin?”

Thorin’s hand stilled, and then he sighed. “I helped Gimli make his own.”

Bilbo made an interested little sound. “And?”

“And he cast it in gold, and I was not – I did not--” Thorin pushed back from his designs, and rubbed absently at his beard. “All through the process, I wondered idly what I would make, were it my own bethrothal ring. Ideas came thick and fast. None were of grief, and none were of the dragon-sickness. They were all about you, and I was happy.”

Bilbo’s eyes closed tightly for a moment, and his throat bobbed up and down. Then he said, “I don’t know how you’ve done all this. I just – I don’t. I was so infernally angry with you at first, but now I can’t bear it. Knowing all that you’ve seen, knowing how much it  _ hurts _ to see it. And it hurts, oh! How it burns, to be so powerless, so useless! Do you know, I can’t even look at Frodo’s face properly. Meeting his eyes feels like he can see right into me, see all my guilt and shame.”

“Bilbo, it was not your fault,” Thorin said, as gently as he was able.

“I know,” said Bilbo with a curt nod of his head. “I know it wasn’t.”

“Not entirely, dearest one,” said Thorin, and he tapped his drawing again. “You know, but you don’t yet  _ know.  _ Your head tells you very plainly that you could not have foreseen such horrible things, and that you could have done nothing to prevent them, is this not so? Yet your heart and soul cry out that it  _ must  _ be your fault, you alone are to blame for such terrible things happening to those you love. Am I right?”

Bilbo glared at him through red-rimmed eyes.

“I see that I am more right than you like to admit,” said Thorin, wryly. “I am sorry, Bilbo. I do not disparage. I understand only too well. This is exactly what I have spent eighty long years learning.”

“While I was hiding from the gossip and the nosy neighbours, you mean,” Bilbo said tartly.

“While you survived, and thrived despite it all, and went on with your life with your head held high before every disdainful look, every scurrilous rumour, every whispered insult,” Thorin said, and he scooted forward. The words spilled out of him with an earnestness that shocked him a little, but the need to encourage and reassure Bilbo was too great to even  _ contemplate _ stopping. “Bilbo, you are not to blame. You gave Frodo a home and a friend and a small family of his own, out of honest sympathy for the lad, and that was a good and noble thing. How were you to know what was to come? How were any of us to know, when not even Gandalf knew? No, Sanmelek, you cannot castigate yourself for being unable to predict the future. And as for me, hah.” Here Thorin lifted a shoulder a little, before letting it fall. “I am learning to manage my own doubts and shame – my own conflict between head and heart, if you will. I do not always succeed. But I am doing better than I have before, and that is in no small part due to your presence.”

“You’re being entirely too kind.”

“I’m not being kind enough.” Thorin turned the page again, and traced one design with a forefinger. “This? Means resilience. And this here – bravery. Bilbo, you are far more than any of the small names your guilt is trying to pin upon you. It is a better liar than the Ring itself.”

“I  _ know, _ I know,” Bilbo let his face fall into his hands, and sighed. “But you’re right – I don’t feel that way. I know it, but I don’t feel it in my belly and bones. I can’t get it out of my mind: his poor maimed hand, and the terrible shadows under his eyes, and the sounds of his crying in the night. And me too old to help. Old Mad Baggins, nothing but a burden and a baggage.”

“Now that  _ is  _ nonsense. You’re the furthest thing from a burden, and Frodo has Sam to care for him now,” said Thorin. “And Frodo knows that you love him like your own child. How could he not?”

“And you?”

“I am under no illusions these days, Master Baggins,” Thorin smiled at him. “I will never assume your level of care, nor shall I doubt you. Not ever again.”

Bilbo let out a short laugh. “Oh heavens, I did say that, didn’t I? You were so terribly meek, I wondered if you were even yourself.”

“Any sensible Dwarf would be fearful of an angry Hobbit,” said Thorin, and he so desperately wished he could tap his head to that curly brow, wrap his arms around the sturdy little body, breathe in the smell of bread and ink and tea. “Haven’t you heard? T’was Hobbits that saved the world.”

“They had help. From one dwarf in particular,” said Bilbo, and his eyes were very bright and shiny. “Didn’t even let death itself stand in his way.”

“Tcch, you and Gimli…! I swear, my old demons stand small chance against you both,” Thorin said, and if only he could cup the little beardless cheeks in his hands, or clasp his palm against a smaller, nimble, soft one. If only. “I do not need such flattery, beloved.”

“Oh, I could flatter, if I had a mind to, Master Oakenshield,” said Bilbo, and there was a little hungry twist to his mouth that said more than mere words could. “I could  _ indeed _ .”

Thorin ducked his head, warmth spreading through the pit of his belly. “Now who is being too kind?”

Bilbo’s hand twitched, as though he was stopping himself from reaching out. “Oh, piffle. Surely you are already aware of how beautiful you are.”

Thorin’s head snapped up. “What?”

“With the hair, and the…” Bilbo gestured airily, “the eyes, and the voice, and the… everything.”

It was a little much to process. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “Really? I mean, I thank you. But. Really?”

Bilbo only shook his head and chuckled. “Fishing for compliments now. There’s a thing I never thought to see.”

“If it is compliments we are trading, then I have several I could share,” Thorin said, and the warmth in his belly was spreading, to fill up his chest with heated air. “I could speak of handsome legs in their short trousers, and fine feet, and bright, clear eyes…a pair of swift and clever hands, a cap of tawny curls over a mind as sharp as cut diamond…”

“Good gracious,” said Bilbo weakly.

“Turnabout is fair play, Kurdulê,” said Thorin, delighted at the response. Bilbo’s ears had pinked considerably, and he was blinking hard, his chest heaving.

“I warn you, I write poetry,” he said in a faint voice.

“I look forward to your vengeance, then,” said Thorin, rather smug. “I am sure it will be most lyrical.”

Bilbo scowled at him for a moment, took a deep breath, and then he said, “acorns mean life, and immortality, did you know that?”

His gaze dropped back down to the blueprint on his table. The design had a motif of acorns stamped around the band, and he nodded. “Aye, I knew.”

“It wouldn’t be nearly long enough for me to show you all the ways in which I love you,” Bilbo whispered, so softly that it was the nearest thing to soundless.

The rising heat flooded Thorin’s breast in a sudden and thunderous wave, and he was left gasping in its wake. All he could do was grip the table and stare at Bilbo. That had been – that was the  _ first  _ time he had ever said that he loved him – like the touch of Mahal, it left Thorin reeling, his mind set adrift.

“Lyrical enough, do you think?” Bilbo said, archly, smiling and leaning back to stick his thumbs into his weskit. Then a frown crossed his brow and he said rather more urgently, “Oh, drat and damnation, too far, too far - Thorin? Doyarzirikhab?”

With tears crowding his eyes, Thorin managed to croak, “your revenge is total and devastating indeed. Bilbo, I love you, I love you – how I wish..!”

“Shh, I know.” Bilbo gave him a small,  smile, and slid his hand over the table towards him, palm up. “I know. And me, too. Me too.”

“You suffered too,” Thorin said, and inched his hand forward in turn until it lay over the Hobbit’s, hovering half a breath above it. “You were alone too. You buried and guarded your pain, I suffocated under mine.”

“And that too, I know. Deep in my belly and bones,” murmured Bilbo.

Thorin stared at their hands, and he wished – oh he wished –

“Thorin?”

Fíli was at the door, and he was looking at Thorin with some concern. Thorin mastered himself with a great effort. “Unday,” he said, and pushed away from his drafting table. “What is it?”

“They’re at the Brandywine,” Fíli said, still giving Thorin a funny look. Evidently he decided to drop it, because he went on regardless. “Gandalf left them at the edges of the Shire: apparently there is some ancient forest spirit nearby he wishes to speak to, and so the Hobbits are making their way without him. But there’s trouble, it seems. The Shire is changed.”

“Changed?” Bilbo half-stood, his eyes huge. “Changed how?”

“Go on,” said Thorin, and the old urgency gripped him hard. No, the shadow was gone. It was gone.

_ I fear that undoing his works will be the labour of many Ages yet _ , Thranduil had said.

Damn him for being right, Thorin thought, as Fíli began to speak once more.

“There’s a guard across the Bridge, and an ugly, gloomy gate. Lots of Men about – they call themselves ‘Shirriffs’, but I thought that the Shirriffs of the Shire were something like our lawfolk, guards tasked with keeping the peace and seeing to justice. These seem to be ruffians hired from the wilds, and their main joy appears to be frightening and subduing Hobbits.”

Bilbo’s gasp was very, very loud.

“That’s not all,” said Thorin, watching Fíli closely. His nephew swallowed, and nodded.

“They camped in a horrible little guardhouse at the Brandywine overnight. All the inns are shut now. Sam met an old friend of his, and they spoke for a while. Seems that these new Men turned up only a few months back, and everything began changing then. All the food is now ‘gathered’ and ‘shared’ – only there’s not much sharing going on, and an awful lot of gathering. There’s no pipe-weed, nor beer. It’s all being sent South in wagons: has been for nearly a year. Frodo’s cousin Lotho Sackville-Baggins appears to be behind it all, dominating the whole of the Shire from Bag End: he’s been buying all the mills and farmlands, and hiring all these Big Folk to guard them. The water is polluted at the Ford, and it’s apparently even worse up at Hobbiton.”

“What is Lotho  _ doing?”  _ Bilbo exploded. “Lobelia’s a right old harpy, but not even she would stand to see her son acting in such a way! What of the Mayor? Surely young Whitfoot is putting a stop to this! What of the Bucklanders and the Tooks?”

Thorin could hardly relay all of that. “Why have the Hobbits not put a stop to it?” he demanded.

“Because the minute they speak up, they’re thrown into a cell,” Fíli said, wincing. “The old Mayor was the first, Sam’s friend said. He’s been kept prisoner in his own offices for months, and anyone who follows his example gets to join him. They’re calling them the ‘Lockholes’.”

“In the Shire!” Bilbo said, spluttering in outrage. “Disgusting! Disgraceful! Preposterous!”

“Hush, Âzyungelê,” Thorin said, not looking away from Fíli. The young Dwarf blinked, but then realised what must be occurring and relaxed. “Tell me more, if you can?”

“I take it you’re not alone, then,” Fíli said, eyebrow crooked.

Thorin inclined his head.

“That explains your expression when I walked in, I suppose.” Fíli scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving his forelock hanging from his braids. “I must admit, the Shire is the last place I ever thought to encounter such ugliness. There’s an iron fist everywhere you look. There’s a lot of rules, and they’re plastered on nigh every door and wall, and by all accounts they get longer and longer every day. The Hobbits are largely too frightened to speak of the goings-on, and there are some that delight in it, even. You know the type.”

“Horrid little self-important popinjays, in love with their own egos,” Bilbo snarled. “Even in the Shire there are some that like minding other folk's business, spying and bullying and putting on airs, sad to say.”

“Anyone can come to it, Bilbo, even Hobbits,” said Thorin sadly. “Thank you, Fíli. Are the travellers well?”

“Saddened and angry, but well enough in body.” Fíli’s shoulders slumped. “Some of the Hobbits and Men have turned informer for Sharkey’s folks – Sharkey, that’s the name of the new Boss, that’s what Nori overheard. They’ll have roused enough of the ruffians by morning to arrest Frodo and his friends.”

Bilbo hissed in sheerest fury.

“Sam would see every single one of them off,” said Thorin, frowning.

“Sam is furious, aye. But Merry and Pippin are even more so.” Fíli suddenly laughed, dry and sour. “All those Ent-draughts! These scurrilous dastards don’t know what to do with such uncommonly tall, strong, armour-clad Hobbits with bright swords in their hands!”

“Good lads!” Bilbo deflated a little, though his scowl remained.

“The whole Southfarthing feels like it only wants a match to set it up in flames, if I tell truth,” Fíli told them. “Merry and Pippin are doing a nice job of being as matchlike as they can. They’re already speaking of arming the Tooks and the Brandybucks. I didn’t know Hobbits even  _ had  _ weapons. Well, other than you, Bilbo.” He peered about, trying to locate the ghostly Hobbit.

“He’s on this side of me,” said Thorin. “Bilbo? Would you share?”

“Yes, yes… well. We’re not warlike, as a rule,” Bilbo said. “We’ve not had a battle since Greenfields, in 1147 of the Shire-reckoning. But we’ve bows and arrows enough, and on the whole we’ve very decent aim. And every farmer goes armed to the teeth, naturally.”

Fíli cocked his head as Thorin relayed this. “Farmers?”

“You’re not a blacksmith, and so you’ve never mended a hoe, a scythe nor a billhook,” Thorin said. “Farmers use the sort of weapons that would put your fine collection to shame, namadul.”

Fíli chewed over that for a moment, and then he began to grin. “The scoundrels won’t know what hit them.”

“ _ If _ they can raise the Shire,” fretted Bilbo. “I hate to think of the beautiful Bywater filled with filth and poison. And from Bag End! My father would have  _ kittens. _ ”

“Peace, Bilbo. We’ll do what we can, however little that may be.” Thorin looked down at the furiously-trembling Hobbit, and let his mouth crook in what was meant to be a reassuring smile. “Sometimes all we can do is stand in the way, but it might be enough.”

“Let’s hope so,” Bilbo said gloomily.

…

“Out of my way! Out of my – has it happened? Is she all right?” Bombur said, elbowing Ori aside in an uncharacteristic show of rude haste. His eyes were huge and white-rimmed, and he was wringing his hands.

“Not yet,” Bifur told him, and Bombur lifted his heavy braid to chew on it in anxious worry.

“Calm down, Bomburuh,” Genna told him, but from the way she was fidgeting madly with her own apron, she could have used some of her own advice. “They’ll take their own sweet time, the same way yours did.”

“Not Bomfrís,” Bombur said, shaking his head. “She was fast as a wink: impatient to see the world, she was.”

“Shh, now,” Bomfur said, and pulled the braid from between his son’s teeth. “We’re all here just to wait. So we wait.”

“Not like we can do much to help, anyway,” added Bifur.

“I am a damn fine labour coach, I’ll have you know,” Bombur said, bristling at his cousin. Bifur held up his hands in surrender, and Ori grabbed one of them and kneaded it between his own.

“Patience,” Genna said. “And don’t chew on your hair, dumpling.”

“My little girl,” Bombur moaned, and then he threw himself down on the ground and gripped his knees with white-knuckled fingers. “I can’t bear this. I hate seein’ ‘em in pain…”

“Good thing you’re not her labour coach then,” murmured Ori under his breath, before a particularly blistering barrage of invective came pouring from underneath the closed door. “Oucccccch.”

“The Stonehelm’s in there, isn’t he? He’d better be,” Bombur said, breathing hard.

“My lad knows what’s important,” came Dáin’s tense voice from the other side of the antechamber. He was seated beside his wife, looking for all the world as though he were still alive and with her in truth, if not for the faint corona of starlight around his shape. “He’s been with her since it began, walking her until she couldn’t walk any more.”

“Good,” Bombur said, and the two prospective grandparents shared a hard look filled with worry.

“Your lass is a tough one,” Dáin said, quiet and rough. “She’ll be fine.”

“You saw how big she was, though,” Bombur said, and absently he raised his braid to his teeth again. Genna smacked it away. “Alrís weren’t ever so big, not even with Barur, and he was an uncommonly large baby. Took two days.  _ Two days. _ ”

“Gimrís knows her trade,” said Bifur. “She’s delivered hundreds of children. She knows every way it can go wrong, and she knows what to do. She’s the very best there is.”

“You missed a few fireworks,” Ori said. “The King made Bomfrís walk and walk, encouraging her all the way, you know. Then she finally snapped – shouted that she wouldn’t walk another poxy cursed step, and that he could take his fine soft words and shove them-”

Dáin chuckled, though it was tense and tight. “Damn, I like her. Bombur, I like her.”

It was not only Thira sitting in the antechamber; others of the living world were with her. Barís, Barur and Alrís were also there, and Dís was seated in an armchair by the fire with a rug across her lap. She was watching the flames with a distant expression in her wrinkled eyes.

The sounds inside the room grew more intense, and Ori tucked his face against Bifur’s chest. All fell silent, trying both to listen and to close their ears all at once.

Then Gimrís’ voice could be heard over Bomfrís’ shocky, quieter sobs, followed by a cry of surprise and joy from the Stonehelm.

Bombur and Dáin stood at once. “What,” they said in unison, but they were drowned out by a thin, thready wail.

“Mi targê, they’re here,” Thira said, and her chin quivered. “Oh, thank the Maker, they’re here safe.”

“Not the only one worried, it seems,” said Bomfur, nodding at Thira.

“I wasn’t worried,” said Bombur quickly. Ori stifled a little giggle.

The door cracked open, and the Stonehelm came forth with slow and careful steps, his hands wrapped around a tiny bundle. “I…” he said, and his face was so profoundly joyous that it brought tears to a few sets of eyes. “I present to you our child.”

“Oh,” said Thira, soft and awed. “The hair.”

“Red hair,” gasped Bombur, and he burst into tears. “Red hair!”

“Of course red hair, what am I, some blonde beauty?” Dáin said in a rather choked tone himself.

“Bomfrís?” Alrís demanded.

“She’s fine, nearly broke my hand and ears both,” said the Stonehelm, beaming like the sunrise.

“Well? What do you intend to name them?” said Barís, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “And can I hold them?”

The Stonehelm walked very carefully over to Dís, and knelt down before her with his tiny, precious cargo. He gently lay the baby in Dís’ arms, and looked up at the aged Lady with shining eyes. “Her name,” he said, and Dáin’s indrawn breath was very loud, “is Dís child of Bomfrís. My heir, and the future Queen of Erebor.”

Dís looked at him wordlessly, and then at her namesake. Her face creased up as she fought her emotions. It took several huge shaking breaths before she could speak.

Then she raised a lined hand and touched the satiny soft skin of the newborn’s cheek. “She’s beautiful, Thorin. She’s so beautiful.”

  
  
  
Dísith and Dís, by [fishfingersandscarves](http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/158575673140)  


“Oh. Durin’s sweaty crack, I’m going to faint,” said Dáin faintly.

“Language,” Genna snipped at him, mopping at her eyes with the hem of her apron.

“She’s so perfect, look at her, look at the gift our Maker’s given them,” Bombur sobbed openly. “Dísith, wee beautiful Dísith! Ach, she’s got a ruby-mark on her cheek, look! Dáin, look!”

“Aye, she does, and shaped like a raven too. That’ll make your girl happy,” Dáin tugged Bombur into a gigantic bear-hug. “Our little grandchild Dísith!”

At that moment a low moan came from the open bedchamber door, and Dís’ head snapped up. “Bomfrís,” she said.

“Oh Durin’s beard,” the Stonehelm said, paling dramatically under his whiskers, and he stood and half-raced, half-stumbled back into the bedchamber.

In his wake, the room was torn between dread and elation, buzzing at a fever pitch. Dís cradled the new child in her arms, her breath catching in her teeth. Thira crossed to her and gripped her shoulder tightly. “She’ll be fine,” whispered Thira. “Just fine.”

“I should be in there, she needs her mother,” Alrís fretted, pulling at her beard frantically.

“She asked us to wait,” Barís said, her eyes squeezed shut and her lip bitten raw. “She asked us to  _ wait here. _ ”

“She swore black and blue at us not to come in,” added Barur, shuddering.

“You’ve got her meal ready, don’t you?” Alrís reached back and squeezed her son’s hand. He squeezed back.

“Her favourite,” he promised.

Barís’ face tipped back, her eyes still closed. “All the ravens are silent,” she breathed. Her glorious voice was scraped raw with fear.

“Tuäc won’t wait,” said Thira. “That bird has been hovering over Bomfrís as though she were her own chick.”

“Let me see her,” said Barur abruptly, and he bent to brush his huge moustache over the new baby’s little face. Dísith seemed to be drowsing after her ordeal, her belly full of first milk. Her pale blue eyes were half-lidded, and the birthmark upon her cheek was very bright. “Hello, little cousin. Don’t you get underfoot in my kitchen now, sweetling, you’re small enough to fit in a pot!”

“Barur, honestly,” Alrís huffed, but she bent over the baby also and a soft look crossed her face. “What a little gem you are, just like your mama. Look at those eyes! Do you suppose they’ll be blue when they settle?’

Dís glanced up at Thira. “I suppose they might be. They run in the family, after all.”

Thira smiled, a touch sadly, but real. “Aye. He’d be thrilled to see them, I know he...”

Bomfrís screamed.

“Mahal have mercy,” whispered Dís.

_ "What in…?” _ came the Stonehelm’s utterly confounded voice, followed by a high shrill gasp from Gimrís.

“What is it  _ now _ , damn it - I can’t handle much more of this!” groaned Dáin. “If I weren’t already bloody dead, my heart would’ve stopped from the sheer tension by now!”

Thira was first to the door. “Thorin!” she called, anxious.

“I – we’re all right, she’s fine,” he called back, a new and overwhelming joy in his voice.

“I’M NOT DAMNED – WELL – BLOODY - FINE, HE’S A BLOODY LIAR!” came Bomfrís’ angry shout.

“She’s fine,” said Alrís, deflating all at once and smiling in relief.

“But you’re not going to believe this,” said Gimrís, and her head appeared from around the doorjamb. “There’s two.”

_ "Two!?” _ said every throat in perfect, dumbfounded concert.

“But – there’s never been Dwarven  _ twins  _ before,” said Ori, blankly. “Never. Not  _ ever.” _

“That we know of, anyway,” said Dáin, staring at where Gimrís’ head had disappeared again, the door shutting behind her. “Not in the records.”

Bombur’s mouth was hanging open, his braid slipping from his teeth with a  _ plop!  _ back onto his chest.

“Two,” said Dís, numbly, and looked back down at the tiny child in her arms. “Two.”

“I don’t believe it, I don’t…” Dáin shook his rough head, and a fat tear of happiness rolled down his cheek. “I don’t believe it at all. Such a blessing!”

“I don’t think Bomfrís would agree with you, right at this moment,” said Genna dryly.

It was not long before there was a new cry, reedy and plaintive, piping through the air. “There’d better not be three, or I quit,” said Bifur. “Mahdel, to you both,” he said to Dáin and Bombur, who had their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, sprawled upon the floor.

“Two!” Dáin crowed, punch-drunk on elation. “Ah, but I’m getting’ legless tonight! Wait, wait up a mo, that was a good one – Bombur - legless, d’you get it?”

Bombur howled with laughter, mopping at his streaming face with his shirtsleeves.

“Pair of idiots,” sighed Bomfur, smiling and shaking his head.

It was some time later when Gimrís pushed open the door again, stripped of her apron and with her hair bound back severely. Sweat had made trails upon her forehead. “Well, that was eventful,” she said, with her usual tart humour. “Is everybody here all right?”

“I think Dísith might want her mother at some stage, but we’re fine,” said Dís firmly.

“I think she’s perfectly comfortable where she is, myself,” murmured Thira. “She’s not cried out once, Gimrís.”

“Aye, a steely little one, she was,” Gimrís said, and touched a knowledgeable forefinger to the raven-birthmark upon the soft cheek. Dísith’s mouth rooted at the air for a moment, before she let out a little sigh and fell deeper into her doze. “Good, for she’ll need it. Her sibling is a… well. He’s something of a shock.”

“I’ll say,” said Barís, laughing. “Twins! Only our sister could turn things on their head this way!”

“She’s all right, isn’t she?” asked Alrís, her hands wringing together.

“She’s fine. Feeding the other one,” said Gimrís, and she squared her shoulders. There was an odd pallor to her face. “I’m just… giving them a little time with him. I’ll take Dísith back now, so she can cuddle with her twin.”

“Have they decided what to name him?” asked Dís, carefully lifting the drowsing baby.

“No need,” said Gimrís with a snort.

Dáin let out a sound that rather resembled a pig with a cough. “No,” he managed, wheezing. His hand shot out and he took hold of Bombur’s upper arm with an iron grip.  _ "No!” _

Dís and Thira seemed to understand where Gimrís was hinting; their faces went slack in wonder, their eyes grown round and disbelieving. Yet Alrís was still worried over her daughter and did not appear to catch on quite so quickly. Her hands landed on her ample hips, her voice tight and cross from the long, anxious wait . “She can’t name him? But you said she was fine! Let me in, young Dwarrowdam, I want to see her this instant!”

Gimrís shook her head. “She was absolutely clear as cut crystal that she didn’t want her family to see her in that much pain, Alrís. Believe me, Bomfrís is fine. Both deliveries were free of complications. She’s healthy and strong, and will be up by tomorrow. And it’s not that she  _ can’t  _ name him, not exactly. No, he’s got a name pre-settled, it seems.”

Alrís opened her mouth to argue, but then it dawned upon her in one staggering second, and she had to be supported by Barís and Barur. “You mean – but, but we’re  _ Broadbeams! _ ” she croaked. “We’re not Longbeards!”

“Looks like that disnae matter an inch.” Gimrís settled Dísith in her arms with a practised bouncing action, clucking absently, before she lifted her head and said softly, reverently, “his eyes shine like ithildin in the lamplight, Aunt Dís. Like ithildin struck by moonlight.”

_ Durin. _

The THUD! of Dáin and Bombur both fainting clean away was surely audible even in the living world.

There was absolute silence as Gimrís slipped back into the bedchamber to bring the little future Queen back to her family. It was too huge. It was simply too much to process.

Dís began to laugh, rusty and unpracticed. “Can you imagine,” she said to Thira and to Alrís, and she reached out her hands to them both. “Can you even  _ imagine  _ how proud they’d be?”

“Oh Maker, he’d be insufferable,” gasped Thira.

“He’d be running in the streets, singing at the top of his lungs,” added Alrís, chuckling wetly.

“Queen Dís, and Durin the Deathless,” said Bifur, and he staggered a little on the spot. It was – it was  _ gargantuan. _ The shape of the future was here, and it was mighty indeed. “M'imnu Durin!”

Ori mumbled, “Well, I suppose that means that Dáin’ll have to watch who he swears by in future.”

…

“So that’s Frogmorton,” said Nori, looking at the little village below. “Lives up to the name, I see. Full of puffed-up bullfrogs.”

“Be kind, Nori,” Fíli murmured.

“I’m the very picture o’ generosity of spirit, I’ll thank you,” Nori sniffed. “Hello, the way’s barred! I travelled through the Shire many a time, and they’ve never barred the road before.”

“Nervous days,” said Fíli.

“More Shirriffs,” added Kíli, scowling.

“But no Men: only Hobbits,” said Fíli, studying the group behind the barrier. It had a large sign on it with the words ‘NO ROAD’ painted upon it; he fancied that it was still wet. “Hobbits with staffs.”

“And feathers in their caps,” Nori said, looking rather amused by this.

“A lot of feathers – feathers seem to be catching,” said Kíli, nodding towards one Hobbit with  _ two  _ plumes sticking out of his hat. The Hobbit was trying to look very important and puffed-up, but he mostly looked very scared.

“What's all this?” said Frodo, pulling up his pony. His tone was strangled, as if he too was stifling a laugh.

“This is what it is, Mr. Baggins,” said the two-feather hobbit. He appeared to be the leader of the bunch. “You're arrested for Gate-breaking, and Tearing up of Rules, and Assaulting Gate-keepers, and Trespassing, and Sleeping in Shire-buildings without Leave, and Bribing Guards with Food.”

“And what else?” said Frodo.

“That'll do to go on with,” said the Shirriff-leader.

“I can add some more, if you like it,” said Sam. “Calling your Chief Names, Wishing to punch his Pimply Face, and Thinking you Shirriffs look a lot of Tom-fools.”

“Sam Gamgee, Honorary Dwarf,” Fíli sighed, smiling as Kíli sniggered.

“There now, Mister, that'll do,” said the two-feather Hobbit, trying to sound stern. It didn’t work terribly well. “It's the Chief's orders that you're to come along quiet. We're going to take you to Bywater and hand you over to the Chief's Men; and when he deals with your case you can have your say. But if you don't want to stay in the Lockholes any longer than you need, I should cut the say short, if I was you.”

There was a pause.

Then to the dismay of the Shirriffs, all four of the travellers burst into howls of laughter. “Don't be ridiculous!” gasped Merry.

“Anyone’d be ridiculous in a hat like that,” said Pippin, still giggling.

“Enough of this. I am going where I please, and in my own time. I happen to be going to Bag End on business, but if you insist on going too, well that is your affair,” said Frodo firmly.

“Very well, Mr. Baggins,” said the two-feather, pushing the barrier aside. “But don't forget I've arrested you.”

“I won't,” said Frodo. “Never. But I may forgive you. Now, come along – if you can keep up!”

It was rather a comic cavalcade that left the village. A dozen or so of the Shirriffs were assigned to escort the ‘prisoners’, but Merry made them march in front, while he and his friends rode behind, casually laughing and talking. People came out to stare and gawp at the procession as they passed through the Shire: the Shirriffs stumping along, trying to look stern and important, and the four adventurers singing and chatting quite at their ease.

Frodo was quieter than the other three, and watched his surroundings and the changes in it with a sad and thoughtful gaze.

As they approached the Water, the Shirriffs finally gave up. Panting and red-faced, they bent over their knees with the sweat dripping from their brows.

“Well, come along in your own time!” said Merry. “We’ve further to go, yet!”

“You're breaking arrest, that's what you're doing,” said the two-feather Hobbit ruefully, “and I can't be answerable.”

“We shall break a good many things yet, and not ask you to answer,” said Pippin, giving him a saucy little wave. “Good luck to you!”

They kept going along the road at a good clip, but conversation soon slackened as the damage all around them grew worse and worse. Smoke was fouling the air, and there were fewer trees every place they looked. Eventually they crested the rise, and then stopped short in total dismay. Bill snorted, his head tossing against his reins.

“It’s… all gone,” said Merry, blankly.

“Just as I saw in the Lady’s mirror,” whispered Sam.

The old Hobbit-holes were gone, and many houses too. Little gardens had been torn up and trampled, their bright colours lost. There was a line of the ugly new brick houses where once a tall avenue of trees had stood. The water at the Pool Side was swirling with the dark rainbows of oilslick.

Over this dreadful scene loomed the Hill, and Bag End. There was an ominous chimney stack built upon its crown where the old oak had stood, and it belched fumes into the air.

Sam was inconsolable. “Mr Frodo!”

“I see it, Sam,” Frodo replied, hard and resigned.

“I'm going right on, Mr. Frodo!” he cried. “They’ve torn up Bagshot Row, look! I'm going to see what's up. I want to find my gaffer.”

“Wait now,” said Pippin, nodding at a group of Men who were lounging and smoking near the old Green Dragon inn – closed now, it appeared, except to these ruffians. “Here’s bad news.”

“Where d'you think you're going?” said the largest in a loud and obnoxiously rude voice. “There's no  road for you any further. And where are those precious Shirriffs?”

“Coming along nicely,” said Merry. “A little footsore, perhaps. We promised to wait for them here.”

“Garn, what did I say?” said the ruffian to his mates. “I told Sharkey it was no good trusting those little fools. Some of our chaps ought to have been sent.”

“Sharkey again,” muttered Nori. “I’d shark  _ him.” _

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Merry flatly. “We know how to deal with footpads, no matter their size.”

“Footpads, eh?” said the man: “You wanna watch your tone, little bug. You lot are getting too uppish. Don't you trust too much in the Boss's kind heart. Sharkey's come now and he'll do what Sharkey says.”

“And what may that be?” said Frodo quietly.

“This country wants waking up and setting to rights,” said the ruffian, “and Sharkey's going to do it; and make it hard, if you drive him to it. You need a bigger Boss. And you'll get one before the year is out, if there's any more trouble. Then you'll learn a thing or two, you little rat-folk.”

“Indeed. I am glad to hear of your plans,” said Frodo, and even exchanging words with a cutthroat and a fool, he shone with dignity and weary wisdom. “I am on my way to call on Mr. Lotho, and he may be interested to hear of them too.”

The ruffian laughed. “Lotho! He knows all right. Don't you worry. He'll do what Sharkey says. Because if a Boss gives trouble, we can change him. See? And if little folks try to push in where they're not wanted, we can put them out of mischief. See?”

“He’s dead,” said Nori at once.

“What?” said Kíli, confused.

“They’ve killed Lotho,” Nori said, and he tugged a hook-pointed knife from inside his jerkin and made it walk over his fingers. “That’s plain enough. They’re not holding him hostage, he’s dead as a doornail, and they’re using what he left to make things even worse. In his name, too. That’s particularly nasty.”

“You don’t have to sound so admiring of it,” Kíli sulked.

“Oh, I ain’t. That’s a mug’s con, that one, and disgusting and dishonourable to boot. But it’s very clever, gotta say.” Nori screwed up his face and hefted his knife as though he would very much like to test its edge on the lead ruffian. “Makes it worse, in a way.”

“There are honourable cons?” wondered Kíli aloud, but Fíli silenced them both with a sharp look as Frodo began his answer.

“Yes, I see,” said Frodo, slowly. “For one thing, I see that you're behind the times and the news here. Much has happened since you left the South. The Dark Tower has fallen, and there is a King in Gondor. And Isengard has been destroyed. The King's messengers will  ride up the Greenway now not bullies from Isengard.”

The man stared at him and smiled. “Fine words indeed!” he mocked. “Swagger it, swagger it, my little cock-a-whoop. But that won't stop us living in this fat little country where you have lazed long enough. And” – he snapped his fingers in Frodo's face – “King's messengers! That for them! When I see one, I'll take notice, perhaps.'”

Fíli bristled with fury. This… this  _ filth  _ dared snap his fingers in the face of the Ring-bearer and call him names? “You foul creature, you descendant of Orcs!” he snarled. “Damn, but I wish you could use that knife, Nori!”

“You and me both, boss,” Nori said, grinning evilly and eyeing the fellow’s throat. “It’s been feeling a mite unloved, these past few decades…”

Pippin evidently had the same idea, for he threw back his cloak and drew his sword. The silver and sable mail of Gondor flashed in the sun as he hissed, “I am a messenger of the King, a Knight and Guard of Gondor. You are speaking to the King's friend, and one of the most renowned in all the lands of the West. You are a ruffian and a fool. Down on your knees in the road and ask pardon, or I will set this troll's bane in you!”

Frodo did not move, even as the slithery sounds of Merry and Sam’s swords unsheathing rang out in the afternoon air.

The ruffians shrank back. They did not seem to know what to do with Hobbits who wore bright mail and carried sharp swords and spoke without fear or flinching.

“Go!” said Merry. “If you trouble this village again, you will regret it.”

The Men cowered, and then fled as the Hobbits advanced upon them, and went away running up Hobbiton Road and were soon out of sight. The sound of their horns came soon after.

“We won’t scare them so easily a second time,” said Pippin, watching them go. “Hear that? They’re calling to their fellows to help them, and they’ll be much bolder when they’ve got the numbers on us. We ought to think of taking cover somewhere for the night. After all we're only four, even if we are armed.”

“I've an idea,” said Sam, perking up. “Let's go to old Tom Cotton's down South Lane! He always was a stout fellow. And he has a lot of lads that were all friends of mine.”

“No!” said Merry, sheathing his sword and giving the old, ruined Green Dragon a mournful look, before he turned to his friends. “It's no good "getting under cover". That is just what people have been doing, and just what these ruffians like. They will simply come down on us in force, corner us, and then drive us out, or burn us in. No, we have got to do something at once.”

“Do what?” said Pippin.

“Raise the Shire!” said Merry. “Now! Wake all our people! They just want a match, and they'll go up in fire. The Chief's Men must know that. They'll try to stamp on us and put us out quick. We've only got a very short time.”

“Yes!” crowed Kíli.

Merry was speaking quickly, laying plans as fast as he could put voice to them. “Sam, you can make a dash for Cotton's farm, if you like. He's the chief person round here, and the sturdiest. Pip, you must slip through the guards around Tuckborough: bring back the Tooks! I’ll rouse the Bucklanders myself. I am going to blow the horn of Rohan, and give them all some music they have never heard before.”

“I’ll stick with Sam, and make sure the Bywater folk gather,” Fíli said, half-tripping over his words. “Nori, stay with Frodo, you’re the sneakiest. Kee, you’re faster, stay with Pippin! Run for Thorin or me if anything goes wrong. The Tooks must be here by morning!”

“Rightio, boss,” Nori said, and saluted with his knife. Kíli was already speeding after the retreating shape of Pippin on his pony.

Fíli squared his shoulders and blessed his natural Dwarven endurance as he spotted Sam a little way down the lane through the village proper. He could catch up well enough, even though Sam was moving at a fair trot. He kept halting to exclaim over some terrible vandalism or other, and at one stage he nearly broke into tears.

“Didn’t ought to cut the Party Tree down,” he gritted, dashing at his eyes. “Mr Bilbo made his speech under that tree! Shame on all of ‘em!”

Just at that moment, they heard a tremendous clear horn-call go ringing out into the sky. Far over hill and field it echoed, surely as far as the Brandywine, if not further. Sam’s pony reared and neighed.

“On, lad! On!” he cried. “We'll be going back soon!”

Then they heard Merry change the note, and up went a new cry, strident and brave, shaking the air.

_ Awake! Awake! Fear, Fire, Foes! Awake!  Fire, Foes! Awake! _

“The horn-cry of Buckland!” Sam gasped, and he spurred Bill on into a canter. Fíli groaned and sped up. “Well, that’ll bring ‘em out of their holes, if nothing will!”

He kept on down the laneway, and there was a murmuring and a slamming of doors behind him as he passed. Hobbits poked their heads out in wonder at the call of the horn, and at the strange getup Sam was wearing.

“Who’s there?” snapped a voice in the dark, and it was a stout old Hobbit with an actual set of mutton-chops (Kíli would be green as emeralds for  _ days). _ He was holding an axe in his hand. “Get you gone, we want none of your thieving ways!”

“It’s not one of them ruffians, Dad!” cried another voice. “It’s a hobbit, by the size of it, but all dressed up in strange gear.”

At the second voice, Sam swallowed  _ very hard.  _ Then he slid down from Bill’s back, and stepped forward with his hands up high and empty before him. “It's Sam, Sam Gamgee. I've come back.”

The older Hobbit stepped a bit closer, and squinted at Sam in the deepening twilight. “Well!” he exclaimed. “The voice is right, and your face is no worse than it was, Sam. But I should a' passed you in the street in that gear. You've been in foreign parts, seemingly. We feared you were dead.”

“That I ain't!” said Sam. “Nor Mr. Frodo. He's here and his friends. And that's the to-do. They're raising the Shire. We're going to clear out these ruffians, and their Chief too. We're starting now, Farmer Cotton, and we’d appreciate your help in the matter.”

“At last!” cried Farmer Cotton. “I've been itching for trouble all this year, but folks wouldn't help. Let’s rally the Bywater!”

“What about Mrs. Cotton and Rosie?” said Sam.

“Why not ask ‘em yourself, Sam-lad,” said the farmer, flashing a grin. Then he raced towards the village centre as fast as his legs could carry him, shouting, “up Bywater! Hie, Hobbits! Out of bed you slowcoaches, we’ve a Shire to save!”

The second Hobbit was left standing by the farm-gate, and she lowered her gaze shyly.

“I think you look fine, Sam,” she said.

“How’ve you been keepin’, Rose?” he said, his heart in his voice. He shuffled one large and furry foot.

“Well enough,” she said, and lifted her chin. She had a great fall of curly hair, and clever, rough brown hands. “I’ve been seein’ to the prisoners in the Lockholes. Someone’s gotta feed ‘em.”

“You, going past all them ruffians all on your ownsome to feed the prisoners!” said Sam, horrified.

“Don’t you start with me, Sam Gamgee,” she said in a stern tone. “I’ve had enough of that from Dad. From the look o’ you I doubt you’ve been any safer.”

“A great deal less safe,” sighed Sam. “But Mr Frodo and I got through it in one piece… mostly.”

Fíli snorted.

“He’s all right?” Rosie wanted to know, and Sam shrugged a shoulder before letting it fall heavily.

“You’ll see, if all goes well. The prisoners…”

“They’re losing heart,” Rosie said, and she heaved a little sigh. “The mayor, old Flourdumpling, Will Whitfoot, now he was first. Hasn’t seen the sky in months and months. They even took Old Lobelia, at her age too! She laid about her with her umbrella and all, but they still took that frail old thing and stuck her in a cell. Freddie Bolger ain’t Fatty Bolger anymore, poor soul. I sneak in what I can with the food and washing: the ruffians don’t pay much mind to us Little Folk… but it’s not enough and it’s showing on their skins.”

“Brave lass,” said Fíli. He shivered at the idea of entering an enemy stronghold over and over again, with the express intent to commit tiny, necessary acts of rebellion.

“But you’re really all right then,” Rosie was saying, fiddling with the wood-axe in her hands. “You and Mr Frodo both? You’ve seen some darkness with those eyes, Sam.”

“Brave and clever,” Fíli amended.

“That’s a fact, and there’s been enough of it. I didn’t expect to find more of it on my doorstep, if you take my meaning. I’d hoped to leave it behind. And I’ve been looking after Mr Frodo all this time, I swear to it.”

“You’re a good Hobbit, Sam Gamgee,” said Rosie, a little smile curling at the edges of her lips. “Wish it were a better homecoming for you.”

“It’ll be well, you’ll see,” Sam insisted. “Merry and Pippin will trounce them soundly!”

“Good.” Rosie dropped her eyes again. “Well, one of us has to protect Mum, so I’m staying here. Go on now! But take care of yourself, and come straight back as soon as you have settled the ruffians!”

Sam hesitated, and smiled back at her, squeezing her rough little hand. “I will,” he promised.

…

They assembled the caravans upon the plains, where wildflowers were nodding their heads and the bees flittered between patches of clover. At least three hundred Dwarves were assembled altogether: miners and cave-diviners, mostly. There were others with specialist skills amongst them: smiths and cooks and stone-talkers and more. 

Gimli looked up at the huge, towering peak with its forested sides, and its cap of frost blushing gold-pink in the spring morning. 

“It’s got my name on the top, you know,” he said, and heaved a great sigh.

Legolas slipped his hand into Gimli’s, and squeezed. “I know,” he said gently. 

Gimli took another long look at Erebor, and then shouldered his pack. “I suppose you want me to get up onto that dratted beast again,” he said, gruffly.

“This pretence is old and weary, and is fooling absolutely nobody, mir nîn,” said Legolas, even as Arod lipped affectionately at Gimli’s shoulder. 

“You look after each other, both of you,” Mizim commanded, and she shooed Arod away and tugged Gimli’s thick gambeson tighter around his chest, settling it with a little pat. “Come back to visit us soon!”

“As soon as we can,” Legolas promised.

“Which isn’t likely to be soon at all,” sighed Glóin, wrapping him in a huge hug, before smoothing back his hair and pressing his forehead to Gimli’s and holding it there. “Both my children, leaving in one blow? It was hard enough with just the  _ one  _ away.”

“Da, they’ll need a healer, and Bofur’s one of the best miners we’ve got,” said Gimrís, leaning down from her waggon-seat and reaching out to him. “And someone’s got to keep the fathead in line, don’t they?”

“I thought that was my job,” said Legolas, mildly.

“Har, har, you’re both hilarious,” Gimli grumbled. “Why did I want you two to get along again?”

Gimizh bounced upon his seat, kicking his heels and looking about with wide eyes. “So, when do we start the Quest?” he said, tugging at Bofur’s sleeve.

“Any moment now, laddie,” Bofur said, with a glance at the sky through his thick glasses. “Just waiting for everyone to get their act together. Not everyone’s as efficient as you, inùdoy.”

Some distance away, Thranduil coughed with polite skepticism.

As Glóin and Mizim made their farewells to Gimrís, Bofur and Gimizh, the Blacklock refugee Kara approached the two members of the Fellowship. The rest of her people, just under a score, would be travelling to Aglarond with Gimli’s folk.

“Well, this is goodbye, for a time,” said Kara. She was leaning upon Orla’s long-handled war axe: a present, from her Aunt. “I’ll send word when it’s safe.”

Gimli clasped her forearm and knocked their heads together. “Aye, and staying safe is all I wish for you,” he said, low. “But you’re in good company: I trust Jeri child of Beri, they’re an old friend and the best of the Kings-guard since Dwalin. They’ll not let you down.”

Kara glanced back at Jeri, who was saying a tearful farewell to their mothers. “I still don’t understand why an Ereborean Longbeard and a Mirkwood  _ Elf  _ intend to come back to the Orocarni with me.”

“Because some things have endured too long, and evil in this world is one of them.” Laindawar could move as noiselessly as a cat, even full-armoured, and he nodded absently to Gimli before addressing Kara. “Do you object to us, Princess?”

She scowled. “No, but I do object to being called ‘Princess’. That’s - that  _ was  _ my Aunt’s place.”

“And now it is yours,” said Gimli, raising his eyebrows.  

Her scowl only darkened, but she did not refute it. 

“I cannot tell how much use I can be, but I cannot stand idle,” said Laindawar, and he looked out towards the East. “I have seen my home cleansed of the filth of Sauron. Why would I not wish it for others?”

“You’ll be hard-pressed to keep him under cover of secrecy,” Legolas murmured to Kara, who snorted loudly. “He’ll be marching in to stab the Cult’s leaders upon the very first day.”

“Hmm.” She looked up at Laindawar, before nodding at Jeri as they approached. “Well, let’s set off,” she told them. “It’s a long way to the Ghomal.”

Jeri nudged Laindawar, who rolled his eyes. “Ready to go change the world some more, Highness?”

“You were right,” said Laindawar in his clipped, haughty way. “You really are a persistent sort.”

He stalked away, and Jeri grinned. 

“Damn, but he is gonna be fun to travel with. Gimli, mahzurulmi astû sigin'aimu nusus. Travel well.”

“And you,” Gimli answered, and they shared a rough hug before Jeri was waving goodbye and running after Laindawar.

“My travelling companions,” sighed Kara.

“You’ll do well, child,” said Ashkar, and they clung to each other for a wordless moment. Ashkar whispered in Kara’s ear, and she nodded once. Then she kissed their forehead, before looking at their face with bright eyes.

“I’ll miss all your advice and complaining,” she said.

“And I’ll miss all the histrionic and hotheaded nonsense,” they laughed. “Go on, now! I’ll be waiting at Aglarond for you.”

“Come ON, let’s GO!” shouted Gimizh, vibrating with excitement. His hollering spooked the pony, and it shied and darted forward a few steps.

“Gimizh has made the call, I suppose,” sighed Gimli. “Best get moving before the sun is too high.”

“You have to train him to be your heir,” whispered Legolas, and Gimli pinched the inside of his elbow.

Thranduil rode forth upon his stag. Its antlers spread shadows upon the summer pasture. “I will go with you, as far as my halls,” he said. “We can show you safe paths through the Greenwood. I will tell Galion to stockpile some foodstuffs for you.” He paused, and then delicately added, “in barrels, perhaps.”

Gimli gave the Elvenking a sharp look. Thranduil betrayed nothing, and his returning look was cool.

Then Gimli broke into uproarious guffaws. “Oh, I am sure you’ve been waiting to say something like that!” he exclaimed. 

Both Glóin and Bofur looked as though they’d bitten into an orange only to discover that it was in fact, a lemon  _ painted  _ orange. 

Laerophen said, rather quizzically, “you’re… not angry?”

Glóin pursed his lips. “Suppose not,” he said, harrumphing a little into his beard. “Twas the Elves who allowed us to escape in those barrels, after all.”

“Galion has never lived it down,” Laerophen agreed.

“Come on, come on, get up here!” Gimizh hollered, and he patted the waggon-seat beside him. Gimrís, holding the reins, huffed in annoyance, but made room so that the Elf could clamber aboard. 

Bofur clicked at his own shaggy goat, and the long slow train began to move in earnest after Gimrís’ cart.

“Look after yourselves!” Mizim called anxiously, as Legolas pulled Gimli up onto Arod’s saddle. “Eat properly! Don’t forget to write!”

“He’s done enough damage with letters!” Gimrís yelled back. “ _ I’ll _ write!”

“Gimrís,  _ why  _ are you coming again?” Gimli moaned, and he let his head fall against Legolas’ back.

“Cheer up, Trollbrain, you’re a Lord in truth now,” Gimrís told him, and snapped her reins. The caravan began to wind across the plain towards Dale, and then south. 

“White Mountains, here we come,” muttered Gimli. He took one look back at Erebor, standing tall and magnificent in the early morning light. There was a tiny shock-haired figure waving madly from the uppermost battlement.

In response, Gimizh stood up on his chair and flailed both his arms madly, nearly pinwheeling from his perch. “Wee Thorin, don’t you dare forget me! I’m still your best friend!” he howled. 

Wee Thorin only thrashed his arms all the harder. “DON’T GET INTO TROUBLE, GIMIZH!” he roared at the top of his young lungs. “I WON’T BE THERE TO GET YOU OUT OF IT!”

Gimizh kept waving at the Mountain until the tiny speck faded from sight. And even then, he kept craning back to look behind them. 

…

It was a small tug beneath his heart that woke Thorin. His eyelids fluttered open, and he frowned muzzily at his ceiling.

“Why under Mahal’s blessed earth am I awake at this forsaken hour,” he mumbled to the air. Then the tug came again.

Not the beer, perhaps? He’d had a beer or two with Dáin and Bombur to celebrate the thunderous news that they were the grandfathers of  _ Durin the Deathless _ . The seventh coming! Thorin was still trying to process it. Things had grown rowdy… but Thorin was certain he hadn’t had all  _ that  _ much to drink. Not compared to Bombur, at least, who had fallen asleep in the middle of the Long Hall, his legs and arms starfished upon the floor, his drunken smile still affixed upon his face. 

Pressing a hand to the hollow beneath his ribcage, Thorin struggled upright. He groped with his other hand towards the oil-lamp and flint upon his side-table. His fingers knocked the flint onto the floor, and he cursed with lips made clumsy from sleep.

The tug came once more, and Thorin groaned in irritation. It was an insistent ache, as though he’d swallowed food that was just a touch too hot. He wasn’t ill, surely? But they did not fall ill in the Halls. What was happening?

Then he knew.

It was the work of only seconds to tug on that day’s tunic and shove his feet into his boots – without socks, and without doing up the clasps. He was still shoving one arm into a soft woollen shirt as he raced from his room and into the silent, echoing Halls at night. His feet shuffled oddly in his shoes, but he didn’t pay attention as he sped as fast as he was able, his own footsteps echoing back at him.

He arrived slightly out of breath, his heartbeat heavy and loud in his ears. Víli was there already, as were Frerin and Frís. A cloak was laid over Frís’ knees.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t really have to. The line of huge, ornate, sombre grey doors before them stole all the words they might have shared.

The tug beneath Thorin’s breastbone came again, sharper and more poignant than before, urging him at one of the doors. He inched tentatively towards it, his breath still whistling fast in his teeth, and gingerly laid a hand against the cool stone. Nothing happened.

“They won’t open until she’s ready for them to be open,” said Frerin, quietly. He wormed his way under Thorin’s arm, easing him away from the sepulchre door. “Come on. The other’s’ll be here soon.”

One by one they came and took their places. Frís sat between Thorin and Frerin and held their hands tightly, one in each, and stared at the door as though she could force it to open by sheer will alone. Thráin paced, impatient and trembling, Custard winding about his ankles. His feet were bare: he had not even paused to shove his boots on.

Dáin gazed at nothing, his night-shirt unlaced and his hair a riot, his hand resting upon the head of a sleepy old boar that snuffled and snorted by his ironfoot. Hrera was yawning, her head drooping upon Thrór’s shoulder.

Víli stood before the tall and silent door, his forehead pressed to the cold grey rock. Fíli and Kíli were flanking him, supporting him and being supported: Kíli’s brow was falling upon his father’s shoulder, and Fíli had a wad of Kíli’s sleeve fisted tightly in his hand.

“You were right,” said Thorin eventually into the long, still silence. “It wasn’t long.”

Thráin’s pacing halted for a step, and he gave a nod. Then he resumed.

The night dragged on. No sounds came from within the sepulchre. What would their Maker say to her? Did she wake even now, her new body blind and shivering, her feet prickling on cold stone?

The Halls gave off a grey and hollow feeling: the Dead slept as she was remade.

His internal time-sense began to lose all hold on the present. At one point, Dáin rubbed his eyes and said, gruffly, “D’you think I- I mean, when I died, was it-”

_ It took nearly all the spirit, all the care in the world she had left, _ came the shared thought to all, though nobody was cruel enough to say it aloud.  _ Thank the Maker that Gimli came home in time. _

“Not your fault,” replied Frís. “You couldn’t have known.” Custard mrowled softly, and the pig whuffled; and that was that. Time returned to its soundless crawl.

Thorin drifted, waiting. Would she be young again, as Oin was, with her hair thick and dark and her face unlined? Or would she be as he was – as they died, in the fullness of age, hair bleaching to grey?

Kíli shifted his weight and let out a groan of frustration. Fíli knuckled his eyes.

“Here,” Thorin heard himself say into the endless gloom. Fíli looked over at him, and then jerked his head at Kíli. His nephews came to him wordlessly, drifting like ghosts in truth. Kíli’s merry face was pinched so tight it looked ancient, and Fíli looked drained of all colour – even his hair made him appear washed-out: golden dye dripping from glass.

Kíli buried himself in Thorin’s arms at once, and Fíli slumped by his legs and lay his head upon his knee. Thorin stroked their sleep-mussed hair, before he lifted his head and gave Víli a nod.

The stonemason smiled at them absently, and nodded back. “Just one door left,” was all he said. "Such a small thing."

“Any second now,” Thráin said, and he threw himself onto a bench and rubbed both palms against his face, up and down. The rasp of work-hardened hands against his beard was very loud.

“Is it always this way?” Thorin asked the still, musty air.

“Aye,” said Frerin. “Though it sometimes takes a little less time. You were fairly quick, as I remember: you wanted  _ out,  _ I suppose.”

I wanted to go  _ back _ , thought Thorin.

“But remember – we saw Dáin… er, go? And we still had time to emerge from Gimlîn-zâram and make our way here to the great doors. Even then we had to wait a little. He wasn’t as speedy as you were.” Frerin gave him a wan smile.

“Oi. I had a few things to get off my chest,” Dáin protested. At that moment a huge, booming  _ crack _ sounded from the door, and Víli stepped back hurriedly to allow it to swing.

“She’s ready, she’s-” he said, breathless and high, and the instant it began to yawn wide he was through it in a flash, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Fíli and Kíli were a breath behind him, followed by the others. Thorin hung back for a second.

Frerin gave him a look, lips pressed together. “Come on, nadad.”

Taking a breath, Thorin plunged into the chill, dank air of the sepulchre. The memories of his awakening assaulted him at once: the impotent fury at the injustice of it all, the crushing sorrow, the clammy skitter of the cold upon his new-made skin. He blinked hard. Frerin tugged at his arm, and he followed without protest.

“It’s your first time being summoned in,” he whispered. “It takes us all a moment, don’t worry.”

“Was my death the first summons for you?” he murmured back.

“No. Father was.” Frerin’s fingers tightened upon his forearm, before they relaxed. “There she is!”

The lingering sense of their Maker’s presence still hovered all about them, the smell of lightning-struck stone and subterranean groan of deep rock. Thorin shook it off to focus upon the shape of a Dwarf in the darkness, wrapped in Víli’s arms.

“I-” she was saying, and her voice was no longer gravel and crushed glass. It was mithril once more, bright and clean and silvery-strong. “Oh, I missed- I can’t see you, every day, every morning – Víli you – and I never  _ knew, _ not until that day, and Gimli….”

“I’m here,” he sobbed, and pressed kisses upon her sightless eyes. “I’m here, I’ve always been here, and now you’re here too, my steely sweetheart, my lark, my Âzyungelê, \- Dís – Dís – oh, my Dís!”

“I can’t see you, I need to see you, it’s been so long,” she moaned. Her fingers, new and trembling, rose to brush over Víli’s many-braided beard, his moustache, the snub of his nose.

“Mum,” managed Kíli, and Dís let out a sound, terrible to hear, as her children wormed into her arms and clung there. Her words failed her for a time as she simply held and held them: her husband taken too young, her children taken too young, her spirit grown old with loneliness and bitterness.

Eventually she could be heard to say, muffled and small, “I tried, oh my children, how I tried for your sake. I tried so  _ hard _ .”

“You did,” said Frís, stepping forward with the cloak and swinging it around Dís’ shoulders. “We know. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Dís’ face crumpled. “Amad.”

“Here,” Frís said, smiling gently. Her hand gently cupped Dís’ cheek and turned it towards her. “Here I am. Your eyes will work soon enough, my daughter, and when they do, you’ll be able to see how proud I am of you.”

“So proud,” added Hrera, her lips trembling around her smile. “All of us.”

“None more than I,” added Thráin in a choked voice. “Oh, little night bird, my beautiful girl, look at you! Your hair-”

Dís lunged at her mother, her hands groping at the air. “Adad? Adad! Adad, I lost hope, I  _ lost  _ it, I gave up on you, on everything – I am so sorry, so sorry,” she gasped.

“No, child, there wasn’t hope left,” Thráin said, soft and rough, and he enfolded wife and daughter in his arms and rocked them together. “Not your fault. And you kept on in the face of no hope at all. Mithril-strong and true you are. No crown on your head, but a queen nevertheless.”

“And a Queen Dís to come after all,” said Thrór. “He did well, naming her after a leader and heroine of her people.”

Dís gripped at her parents with fingers like steel, her back shaking with sobs that she brutally repressed.

“There now,” said Hrera gently, and she stroked Dís’ hair, which was a glossy raven black once more. “There now. Let it out.”

“Grandmother,” Dís gasped. “Oh Maker, I was only a baby when…”

“And I couldn’t be prouder of you,” Hrera soothed. “There’s a proper dwarrowdam, I said time and again. Didn’t I, Thrór?”

“She did,” said Thrór. “Said it was a blessing that at least one of the grandchildren got her good Broadbeam sense.”

“Are you ready for the rest of us now, sweetheart?” asked Frís softly. Dís only nodded, her hands still clutching like iron bands.

“Hello, sparrow,” said Thrór, and he carefully tapped his head to hers. “We’ve come a long way from the days when I held audience, and you clambered over my knees, haven’t we?”

She couldn’t answer. Her fingers unhooked from Frís’ nightclothes, and she patted at Thrór’s face and beard with frantic eagerness. “Shhh, little sparrow. I’m here now, and none of me is lost to gold or grief these days. But come now! There’s others waiting.”

Frerin gave Thorin an expectant look, but Thorin shook his head, mute and full of guilt. Frerin huffed at him, but shook his head and stepped forward anyway. “Hello, namad.”

Dís’ head snapped up, her eyes staring wide and white-edged. “Frerin,” she breathed. “I – your voice – I had  _ forgotten.” _

“I think I’m insulted, baby sister. As though you could forget my charming voice,” Frerin teased. “Especially when it always says such wise things.”

“Where are you, nadad,” Dís demanded, her tear-streaked cheeks gleaming as she turned her head this way and that. Thráin supported her as she stumbled forward a step.

“Here I am, don’t you go crushing me!” Frerin said, and he threw his arms around her. She jerked at the sudden embrace, but quickly wrapped him up in her arms in return. “I can’t believe I had to give Gimli my dark-name for you to believe us! You’re as suspicious and sceptical as you ever were.”

“If you had lived through the sorts of promises and dashed hopes that I have lived through, my sweet sunshine brother, you would also be sceptical of things that sound too good to be true,” she retorted.

Thorin shrank back at her words.

At his side, Dáin gave him a measuring sort of squint, Then he lifted his leg and kicked him solidly in the backside. “Get over there, y’daft noble twit,” he grunted.

Dís’ intake of breath was quite loud. “Dáin?”

“Aye, over here, cuz. Sorry about the whole uh… dying in your lap thing. But before you take your revenge, you’ve another brother who is hanging here like a nervous raincloud. I’m just giving him a bit o’ incentive.”

“You  _ kicked  _ me, you ass!” Thorin growled at him. The ironfoot was blessed hard!

“Aye, and I’ll do it again if you don’t get over there,” Dáin said, grinning cheerfully. “Don’t think I won’t!”

“Thorin,” Dís said, and her beautiful mithril voice quavered. “Thorin?”

“Namadith,” said Thorin, his throat closing tight and sharp around the word. “Dís. I am so, so sorry-”

“Oh, shut UP,” she snapped, loud and low. Her voice echoed around the chamber with sudden vigor, and she pushed away from Frerin and Thráin and staggered in his direction. “Shut up, shut up always, and now hold me because I have missed you! I missed my brother, you absolute  _ bastard,  _ you unrelenting - self-sacrificing - self-flagellating - fool! Get here, NOW!”

Thorin swallowed hurriedly, and quickly stepped forward to catch her before she tripped upon her cloak with her clumsy untried feet.

Víli was laughing wetly. “Well, some things don’t change,” he said, his arm clasped tightly around Fíli’s shoulders. Frís was smiling into her hand, her eyes glistening.

“You daft proud thing, you smell exactly as you did,” Dís whispered against his chest. “I told Gimli then, and I’ll tell you now. I forgive you, I forgave you decades ago. You forget that I was also there, all those years we scraped by, and I knew what you had to face. You still had hope, Thorin, and I had none. I cannot hate you for that.”

Thorin kissed his sister’s brow, and let his tears roll into her dark, dark hair.

“I missed you too,” he whispered back.

…

  
  
Reunion, by [shipsicle](http://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/158528595051)  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Ion nîn – my son  
> Mir nîn - my treasure  
> Meleth nîn – my love  
> Ú - No  
> Adar - Father  
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Mi targê – by my beard  
> M'imnu Durin - In Durin's name (Tradition Longbeard expression used to praise the line of Durin - literally: "By the name of Durin".)  
> Mahzurulmi astû sigin'aimu nusus.- I wish you a save journey  
> Burushruka igbulul e. - I'm sorry (polite apology) (literally: "it pains me greatly")  
> Mahdel – blessing of all blessings  
> Dohyarzirikhab – Anvil of Hope  
> Gimlîn-zâram – Star-mere  
> Âzyungelê – love of all loves  
> Ghivashelê – my treasure of all treasures  
> Sanmelek – Perfect (true/pure) half  
> Kurdulê – my heart  
> Unday – (the) greatest boy  
> Namadul – sister’s child  
> Namad – Sister  
> Namadith - Little sister  
> Nadad – Brother  
> Adad – father  
> Amad – mother
> 
> Some lines of description and some dialogue taken from the chapter, "The Scouring of the Shire" in _Return of the King._
> 
> Durin the Deathless - The Dwarves believe that the eldest of the seven original Dwarves, Durin, would be reincarnated seven times and reign as King. There have been six Kings called Durin thus far.
> 
> [Tolkien's own family tree for the Line of Durin shows that the seventh incarnation was descended from Thorin III Stonehelm, son of Dain II Ironfoot.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/7c/b2/e2/7cb2e2305c181b639c8dd688e562f1dd.jpg)
> 
> Fun fact - the name 'Durinn' comes from the Völuspá, along with many more of Tolkien's dwarf names. It means 'Sleepy'!!!
> 
>  
> 
> The worship of Sauron held sway over Rhûn and the East in the Third Age. I personally don't think that the Orocarni (Red Mountains) dwarves would have supplanted their worship of Mahal with the worship of Sauron. In this story I have speculated an alternative to the 'evil Easterlings' narrative, to include an underground rebellion and a refugee solution.
> 
> My thanks forever to Jon for all the incredible headcanoning and insight into Orocarni Dwarves. You are a true monarch, my friend. 
> 
> I don't actually know if there have never been Dwarven twins. But as a race with a low birthrate and a long life, it may be that they are as rare as hen's teeth! If anyone was going to produce a set of multiples, though, it was definitely going to be the child of Bombur and Alris.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to everyone who reads this story. Thank you for your amazing comments, kudos and support that keeps me chugging along. You inspire me to always do my best.


	47. Chapter Forty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, it's me. I told you I would never ever abandon it. 
> 
> I'm so sorry for the gigantic wait. It's been a terrible time for me and my family. I'm well enough, but we've had serious illness hit a family member and it has proved very difficult. I am so grateful for the kind messages and the lovely reviews I received during my absence, they've been a bright spot in a dark time.
> 
> I am currently on a term break, so I intend to get as much written as I possibly can. I hope that you enjoy the Battle of Bywater _a la_ Sansukh! 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for your understanding. *hugs* I missed you, and I missed this world.

“So. You have answered my summons at last, daughter of the forest.”

_Hröa. New hröa. She had died, she had stormed the dark fortress, and…_

“And far sooner than I had anticipated.”

She blinked her eyes, feeling the breath rush in and out of her lungs, the expansion and contraction of her ribs, as she had never noticed it before. Her toes scraped against the ground as she slowly stood up. Her skin felt unbearably sensitive, as though rough cloth were being pressed against it, though it was no more than the whisper of air around her limbs.

It was too bright, but she could just make out that her hands were as she remembered them. This flesh was identical to the old, just as all the tales had promised.

Then she took in the gigantic figure stooping over her, and her newly-beating heart nearly stopped yet again. “My Lord… Mandos?”

“Námo, if you please. Mandos is the name of my realm.” The Vala was neither young, nor old. His skin was deep bronze, and the piercing glow of the moon came from his eyes, etching the edges of the room in stark white and grey. His hair and body were swathed in scarves of many colours, covered in fantastical designs so intricate and dizzying that they defied the eye. They wafted around him, blurring his silhouette, drifting about like ghostly tendrils.

She shrank back.

“I did not expect to see you for several centuries yet,” he continued, and straightened up. The scarves floated in the air about him, as though an unseen wind were toying with them. Half-hidden in this cloud of complexity, he moved back politely to allow her some space in which to recover. “Those who refuse my summons and my halls do not tend to change their minds as readily as you have.”

“I did not change my mind,” she said, bravely lifting her face to that moonglow. “I do not know why I have come, nor why I have been given this new form. I would have stayed in my trees, entombed beneath the stones. There is nothing for me here.”

“Hmm.” The Vala waved a hand (or was it a scarf?) at a table which had suddenly appeared. “You are the daughter of that wood indeed: stubborn, thorny and hard. There are clothes for you here, at least. Choose which pleases you best.”

“It is my home,” she said, and as hurriedly as she was able she dragged on a pair of green hose and a brown tunic. Her colours. “It is where I would have my body remain.”

“You are an Elf, child,” said Námo patiently. “You cannot be elsewhere. Your very essence is tied to the world. You may refuse the summons, but it only prolongs the inevitable: this was always meant to happen. Your re-embodiment is the fate of all Elves. Most find it a relief.”

“Elves are not a monolith; I do not need to react as others do,” she growled, shoving her feet into a sturdy pair of boots. “I want to go back.”

“Why?”

That stopped her for a moment, but she firmed her jaw nevertheless. “I left great evil behind me, roosting in the branches of my home,” she said. “I will return and destroy it, now that I am whole once more.”

“Ah! Rejoice, then, daughter of the trees! For the evil has been destroyed as you drifted beyond all hope of news.” Námo smiled, and she was momentarily dazzled by the flash of his teeth. “The enemy has been thrown down and can never be reborn, for his greatest and chiefest weapon was in the end, the instrument of his destruction. No shadows will crawl from Dol Guldur in the days and decades to come. It is destroyed, and not a stone remains.”

She stared up at him, overwhelmed by the glow and the myriad patterns of his scarves and scarcely believing it. “Dead? Sauron is dead?”

“He is. I have turned him away, and he shall lie trapped in the void until the Sun and the Moon both perish. This I swear to you.”

“And is that prophecy?” She sat down heavily, and stared at her fingers. The lines and creases of her palms were exactly as before – the stark harsh light painted them in black and grey upon her skin.

“It is truth. It is what must and shall happen.”

“How did this happen?” She looked up again. It was difficult to say whether the movement was scarves or arms as the Vala drew closer once more.

“Through trial and terror, bravery and fellowship,” he said, and his smile pierced her again. “And love, of course. It is a tale long in the telling. Therefore we must find a time long enough, and begin. As for you, I may hazard a guess. Though the mightiest of the Elves yet in Middle-Earth were the ones responsible for the fall of Dol Guldur, it was Aiwendil that sowed the earth in the aftermath. He was a pupil of Yavanna before his journey, and it was his task to protect the Olvar and Kelvar of Middle Earth. He has fulfilled his task.”

“I do not understand.”

He considered her. “You stayed to protect your forest, did you not? You gave the last of your strength, even unto your last breath, to rid it of evil.”

She nodded dumbly.

“Thanks to the Brown Wizard, it is no longer in need of protection. It is cleansed. It is free.”

She blinked. The knowledge sank heavily into her, as though it was a stone and she a still woodland pool.

Then she said, “what do I do now? Where shall I go?”

The Vala’s expression was shrewd. “I, famously, have little in the way of pity. I suggest you seek out a new purpose, Elfling.”

She sat motionless for another moment. Then her head whipped up, an impossible hope flaring in her breast. “You see all those who die, do you not?”

“That is my purpose.” He sounded stern now, as though he anticipated her next question. “I see them, yes. They are my charge. But only those of Elven blood may pass through my borders. The Men and Hobbits and Orcs go on, to a place even I cannot see. Only Eru Illuvatar knows their destination.”

She took a huge breath. “And Dwarves?”

He drew back, his scarves flaring in shock. “What?”

She scrambled to her feet. “What of the Dwarves? Where do _they_ go? Do they also move beyond, to a place you cannot see? Or do they stay as the Elves do?”

Stiffly, he answered, “They stay. But not under my care.”

Her heart began pounding with a new challenge. “Where? Under whose care?”

But Námo was silent.

She spun on her heel, and all at once there was a door where there had been none before. “Is that the way out? To Aman and beyond?”

“It is.”

“I will find where the Dwarves go,” she promised him, and raced for the door. “I will!”

“Unusual girl,” he murmured as she disappeared into the fields. “Perhaps I should warn Aulë… or then again, perhaps not.”

After all, he was owed a surprise after that nonsense with Irmo, the Dwarf, the Hobbit, and the Olórë Mallë.

…

“So, let’s get a plan together,” Jeri said, sitting back comfortably. They had lit a small fire, and all around them the great red desert stretched as far as the eye could see. Small scrubby bushes dotted the parched earth, and giant monoliths of red rock were interspersed with swathes of fibrous grasses, tough and dry. The night sky reached into infinity above them, and new constellations could be made out on the Eastern horizon. “What do we have?”

“The element of surprise,” answered Kara moodily. “And nothing else.”

Laindawar frowned at her. “That is not true. That is useless talk.”

“Well, I don’t see what else we have,” she snapped back. “I’ve lived in the Ghomal my whole life: I know it as you never can. And I tell you, we are hopelessly overmatched… I have no idea how to begin.”

“We begin by pooling our assets,” Jeri said, as Laindawar drew himself up to retort. “No, shut up. Really, shut up. All right. Laindawar, you won’t be able to pass unnoticed in the Orocarni. I have no idea if there are Elves in the East at all… so you will stand out like a big blond boil on someone’s nose.”

Laindawar’s lip curled. Kara sniggered.

“So we make use of that. You’re new, you’re unusual, you’re going to draw attention. Folks will want to know all about you: what you can do, your people, all of that. You’re a crown prince, too. We can make you a big shiny Elven distraction while Kara here gets people whispering.”

“Are you suggesting that I should be a figurehead?” Laindawar asked incredulously. Jeri looked faintly amused.

“Not at all, Highness. You’re trained as a warrior, but you’ve no doubt had a few millennia of polite and princely niceties shoved down your throat, yes?”

Laindawar gave a curt nod, lips pressed together.

“Then you know how to lay a word or two in the right ear. You know how to use a phrase to get people thinking. You know how to grease the right palm. And you know how to act as though everything you see belongs to you. Your status will give us access to dignitaries we otherwise might not have been able to reach, the very highest offices of the land.” Jeri clasped their hands on their stomach and tapped them in thought. “Kara, who do we really need to get to? The folks most in need of sanctuary?”

“It depends,” she said, glancing up at Laindawar. “There will be political dissenters and prisoners:  they will be under intense scrutiny if still free, and if captured they will be guarded day and night. There are many who simply live quietly and fearfully. Snitching on your neighbours is not only encouraged, it is highly praised. There are few places in which to think or talk freely. The Cult of Sauron is paranoid, and it makes them ever-vigilant. We will be watched intently.”

“What of your mother?” Jeri asked gently. “Does she not need to escape?”

Kara clammed up immediately, her eyes blazing.

“Perhaps leave that enquiry for another day, mellon,” Laindawar murmured.

“And yourself,” Jeri said, adroitly side-stepping the awkward silence. “You were a political exile, no? Will you be arrested on sight?”

Kara frowned. “Maybe. Or maybe not. Exile yes, but I am still Crown Princess, and there will be some who see my return as the reestablishment of stability and continuity. We will need to gain the ear of the Treasurer, Korvir. She holds the purse-strings of the kingdom, and thus a great deal of power and influence. She is no friend to the Cult, but they cannot oust her while she controls the coin of the realm.”

“A concealment, perhaps?” Laindawar wondered.

“No-one is going to believe you are a Dwarf, no matter how short you are for Elvenkind,” Kara snorted.

Jeri coughed, and Laindawar growled beneath his breath. “That wasn’t what was intended,” Jeri said, and laid a calming hand on Laindawar’s arm. “Easy there, friend. No, I think you were suggesting that we disguise Kara herself, aye?”

Laindawar gave another short nod. Kara nearly shot to her feet in outrage.

“I will do no such thing! Lies and deceit are the way of the enemy! I will return to my halls as myself and with my own name, or not at all!”

“Peace! Peace,” Laindawar said, and he shook his head. His hair was rusty gold in the firelight. “I did not suggest that you pretend to be someone you are not. Only that you wear your veils, as Ashkar does, and give no name until we are sure of the lay of the land. Then we may reveal you.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip. “I suppose that may work. If you can dazzle them with your Elven snobbishness, then get them wondering… yes, then it may be safe enough to come forth, or at least too awkward and public to attack me without reprisal or question. What about you, though?” she turned to Jeri, “you’re never going to pass for a Blacklock Dwarf.”

“Nope,” Jeri said cheerfully. “I’m Jeri child of Beri, aide and guard to the great Prince Laindawar, Elven adventurer and explorer, etcetera and so forth. If he and I are noisy, showy and flashy and new, then we may conceal you as a guide and interpreter before we make our big reveal.”

“Great Prince Laindawar,” repeated Laindawar, flatly.

“Etcetera and so forth,” Kara said, eyes dancing.

“I’ve never been this far from home before,” Laindawar said. “I’ve never even left the Greenwood before this year. My youngest brother had the wanderlust, not I!”

“Yes, I know, but we have to get folks interested. That way, we can begin our campaign of whispers.” Jeri squared their shoulders. “All right, so what else have we got? Skills, I’ll start. I’m a warrior, I favour the axe and the sword, I’ve an excellent head for planning but a terrible grasp on numbers sadly. I will be of little help there – they turn inside out when I try. I’m good at spotting a problem, and at getting out of a tight spot. I can mine and sing, I’m a fair cook, and I can talk friendly-like to anyone.”

“That last is useful, for I cannot,” Laindawar said. “I am also a warrior, and have been solitary for much of my life. I cannot make small chatter. It is not in my nature.”

“So you stand and look impressive and enigmatic, and I’ll do all the talking,” Jeri laughed. “You should be good at that.”

“Droll,” Laindawar said, dry as the dust all around them. “My weapons are the sword and bow. I have knowledge of statecraft and history and healing herbs. I am a woodsman and tracker, and I can settle beasts and birds of the sky.”

“Is it true that Elves don’t really need to sleep?” Kara said, leaning in with a sort of fascinated worry.

“We are creatures of flesh, just as you are,” Laindawar said. “But we need little sleep in comparison to you.”

“Good thing, for we’ll need Elven vigilance where we’re going,” Jeri said. “Kara?”

She sighed. “I can fight, but not to any great mastery. I only gained my journeyship in the art of dual swords, and I was removed from my place before I could finish. I was taught to be a quiet, obedient ornament, when I was taught anything at all.”

“But you have skills and passions, do you not?” Laindawar prompted her. A strange sympathy was rising in his heart.

She looked up at him, and her huge dark eyes were imploring. “Ashkar was the one who cared… my mother, she. But yes. Ashkar taught me to debate and to speak to the truth in other people. They taught me how to be an orator. I don’t think they meant to,” she added, laughing a little self-deprecatingly. “Not at first. But they did anyway. Couldn’t help it. Ashkar saw all the words trapped inside me and encouraged me to string them together: to turn them into arguments and reason and rhetoric. Ashkar is a historian, a lecturer, as well as a politician, but in their heart of hearts, they’re an academic first and foremost. A teacher. And that was their undoing. All the thinkers have been silenced, just as I was expected to be silent.”

“Well now!” Jeri said, and nudged her gently. “An orator? THAT is a gift worth having. D’you know how rare it is to find a charismatic leader? Believe me. We can get the people interested, sure. But you, Kara – you’re the one who is going to capture their hearts and minds. You’re going to lead them to freedom.”

“All those thinkers,” Laindawar said, “they will have stopped speaking, certainly, for it is not safe. But they will not have stopped _thinking_. Yours will be the first voice, and others will follow.”

She looked rather lost. “I…I… just want them to be safe. I want us all to be _safe_ , as it once was, as it used to be when grandmother was alive. I want-”

“Looks like you’re the chosen one, sweetheart,” Jeri told her, and gave her forehead a smacking kiss. “Now sleep, you’re gonna need it. I’ll start teaching you some more swordplay in the morning, and the prissy twig here can quiz you some more about being royalty in the Ghomali court, and all that stuff. We’ve got the bare bones of a plan, so let’s not waste the night with more talk.”

“I will sing to the stars,” Laindawar announced abruptly, and at Kara’s torn face he added, “I will not go far. Whatever we must do, Kara, we will help them find safety. I promise you.”

She sighed, and lay down at a safe distance from the fire. “I don’t know if I want to be a Chosen one,” she mumbled as she tugged her blanket up over her shoulders.

“Just a fancy way of saying, ‘here is a dirty, difficult job with lots of pain involved, and a faint glimmer of glory at the end of it’,” Jeri said, yawning. “That’s if you get to the end of it. In my experience, things don’t really end so much as change. Night, all. Nice to be co-conspirators with you. Here’s to another day of trudging through a desert full of bugger-all in the morning.”

Laindawar stood, watching the two Dwarves curl up for a long moment, motionless and patient as only Elves can be. Kara looked astonishingly young as her face relaxed into rest, and Jeri seemed oddly unfinished without their usual glib humour shining in deep brown eyes.

The stars felt very distant as he stepped away, out upon the endless plains of the North. Perhaps forty leagues back West, the Iron Hills dreamed their Iron dreams. Even further West lay Erebor, and south of that, his home. Green and still and ancient, cloaking all in warmth and in the slow soft voices of trees. He could taste the homesickness upon his tongue as clearly as the hardtack and waybread of their evening meal.

No place had ever seemed as unlike his home as this. Red and sparse and parched, it was as different from Eryn Lasgalen as day from night. He missed his home with an ache that he could feel in his teeth. He missed the sounds of his own tongue, the whispers of his beloved trees.

Yet he could not turn away, could not return. Evil still lay plotting in the world, and Sauron had taken too many homes already. Glancing back at the small, stout form of Kara, his resolve hardened.

They were much alike, though he could never have understood that only a handful of months ago. Indeed, he would have poured scorn upon the notion. But there it was: they shared an intense love of homeland and people, a fierce protectiveness, a willingness - nay, an eagerness - to fight. Laindawar’s home was free of shadow now. But hers had been stripped from her, all in one cruel blow.

Yes, a strange sympathy indeed. But he could acknowledge it now.

(Even if she bickered and snapped and grumbled upon every second word.)

Change is the way of the world. We change, or we are left behind. Jeri had been right. Jeri was often right, he was learning. The cheerful, chatty Dwarf might just be one of the most intelligent people he had ever met.

“A young hopeful Queen, and her tactician,” he murmured. “And what does that make you, Laindawar of the Greenwood?”

“A deadly secret weapon in a crown and silly silk robes,” Jeri mumbled. “Shut up and sleep, Highness. We’ve got a long way to go.”

…

It was Nori who shook him awake. “Oi, you lump, wake up,” he hissed. “You gotta come to the Shire. Things are coming to a head.”

Thorin struggled out of the pile of blankets before the fire. All around him, his family slept on. Dís was wrapped in Víli’s arms, and Kíli was sprawled with his head upon her lap. Her hand was laid upon his hair even in sleep.

Even Hrera was bundled in a chair with a rug over her knees, her beard for once not woven intricately and studded with beads, but simply and loosely braided for sleep. None of them had wished to leave now that they were, at long last, all reunited.

“Fili?” he mumbled, his mind still rattling loose in his head. “Is he…”

“Yeah, he snuck out earlier. Said he needed to watch over Frodo, at the very least. Dead on his feet, he is, so I made the call to come get you.” Nori’s eyes were a suggestion of white in the gloom, flicking from side to side. “The Men are beginning to gather now. They’re getting a clue faster than I’d like, frankly.”

“Damn.” Thorin managed to free one arm – Frerin was clinging to him like a limpet – and extricated himself from the warm huddle of Dwarves surrounding his sister. “All right, give me a moment to find my boots. I don’t want to be stumbling over the place in bare feet.”

“Afraid all the Hobbits’ll laugh at ‘em?” Nori said, grinning.

“No, they’re harder, and so all the better for kicking your arse,” Thorin retorted, and he nudged the thief. “Get on with you now, you rascal, and thank you. Go to bed; it’s late.”

“Cheerio, boss.” Nori stood up, silent and quick as a thought, and glanced around at the family sprawled together, a knot of love and safety. “There’s a look. The great and noble line o’ Durin, curled up like a litter of kittens in a basket.”

“Well, we missed her,” Thorin said, feeling mulish.

Nori paused as he reached the door, and his hand rested upon the jamb for a second. “Oh, I get it,” he said softly. “Didn’t used to hope much, but Fíli made me reconsider. What we’ve seen, well, it worked.”

Eyeing him curiously, Thorin wondered where the thief was going with this. “Aye. By the narrowest hair and the very skin of our teeth. But it worked.”

“By the narrowest _hope_ ,” Nori corrected, and then grimaced a bit at his own earnestness. “Ugh. Anyway. It made me think, after everything that’s happened... Praps there could a bit more left in the corners of me. So I hope – I _hope_ that you’re happy, my king. Hope you all are. And I hope that my brother is happy with Bifur, an’ that the Hobbits see these bastards off… and that the world is a bit less hungry and frightened now. And I hope that Dori an’ Ori and I might one day er, _borrow_ some of those blankets. Did Hrera make ‘em? That looks bloody cosy, don’t mind saying.”

Thorin’s face softened. “Of course. As long as you don’t steal them.”

Nori nodded, and his wicked grin tugged at his lips. “Me? Would I do that?”

Then he disappeared without another word.

Dori was two hundred and thirty, or thereabouts, Thorin remembered. It would be some time yet before Nori could pinch the blankets.

“That was nice,” murmured Dis, her words blurring together. “When did you make friends with him?”

“Eighty years ago,” Thorin said, and kissed her brow. “Sleep. I’m off to see what is keeping Fíli.”

“Mmm. Good. Bring him back here please,” she said, and turned in Víli’s arms. Between one breath and the next, she fell back into her slumber.

Thorin finally found his boots, one tucked beneath Dáin’s head and one underneath his grandmother’s chair, and pulled them on. Walking through the Halls in the middle of the night seemed to be a habit now, and he barely paid any attention as someone fell in beside him.

“Got a pressing errand?” Bilbo asked, thumbs tucked into his jacket pockets. He looked for all the world as though he were on a casual afternoon stroll.

“Going to the Shire,” Thorin said, yawning. “Your people are about to win a war, I believe.”

“Splendid, I’ll join you,” Bilbo said, and his sharp little chin firmed in anger and determination. “Blasted scoundrels. I want them out of my father’s house, so I do. It’s a million times worse than the blessed auction.”

“You’ll be all right, seeing such things?” Thorin blinked his bleary eyes down at the Hobbit. “It’s your home, after all.”

Bilbo’s eyes grew soft and warm as he returned Thorin’s gaze. “No it isn’t. Not anymore.”

Then he coughed, as though he’d said a little more than he’d meant to. Pasting a businesslike look on his face, his head snapped forward and he began to walk briskly towards the Chamber of Sansukhûl. “Besides,” he said, “I doubt there’s anything in the whole of the Shire that those four cannot deal with. No, I will be fine, Thorin, though it’s good of you to ask.”

“If you’re sure,” Thorin said, and pushed open the great pearl-studded doors.

Only one Dwarf was seated at the poolside: Fíli, his head bobbing to one shoulder and his eyelids pressed and bruised. “Oh, namadul,” Thorin sighed, and he caught the lad’s shoulders before he keeled over. “Come back now. Come on.”

“What in the name of my second-best walking-stick has he been doing to himself?” said Bilbo, worried.

“I should have guessed,” Thorin said to himself, before he looked up at Bilbo, his mouth drawn down. “His mother died tonight. He has been awake too long, and sore and heartsick besides. He should be with the others, with the rest of the family. But Fíli has always been loyal before all, oftentimes to the ruin of his own health. I should have guessed that he would not leave Frodo and his friends, even with Dís finally here at last. He has become very protective of him. Nori did well to come and find me.”

“Doesn’t remind you of anyone at all, does he,” remarked Bilbo.

“He knows better than to be emulating my mistakes,” Thorin said, frustrated, and gently shook Fíli’s shoulders again. “Come along, nidoyel. Come out of the waters now: you need real sleep, and your mother is waiting.”

“Not a peep.” Bilbo crouched down, peering into Fíli’s face. “It’s quite disturbing, the way he doesn’t blink at all as he stares at the water. Do you look like that?”

“I expect we all look like wax statues,” Thorin answered absently. “Fíli? Fíli?”

“Terribly unsettling. Perhaps you have to go in after him,” Bilbo said, pulling at the lobe of one ear and scrunching up his face.

“No time like the present,” Thorin said, and sat down beside Fíli. His nephew’s hand was cold as he took it. “I will see you in the Shire, ghivashel.”

“Race you,” Bilbo said, and vanished.

The starlight took its time to rise in the water upon this occasion, as though the Pool itself could feel the challenge left hanging in the air all around them (and it wanted Thorin to come second). He let out a huff and redoubled his stare, willing the light to swirl faster… faster….

…and he was falling, gathered up as though by a hurricane and flung into the world. He landed on his belly with a grunt, his hands pressed against the ground and his cheek resting upon a hard cobblestone.

“Elegant,” Bilbo commented.

“Impertinent Hobbit,” Thorin managed, pushing himself up onto hands and knees. His hair was scattered all over his vision, but he could make out the blur of torches in the distance. “Ah.”

“Uncle?” Fíli was there, hovering at Sam’s side. “Uncle, it’s the middle of the night!”

“Aye, and I’m here to relieve you,” Thorin said, hoisting himself up onto one knee. “Where are all the Hobbits?”

“They’re setting a trap,” said Fíli, and he pointed to where a grizzled old farmer-Hobbit stood alone, warming his hands over a cheery little fire. “There’s the bait.”

“That’s young Tom Cotton,” Bilbo said, stepping forward. “And this is Bywater, and– my word, I hardly recognise it! It’s all gone!”

“I know, Bilbo, I see it,” said Thorin under his breath. “Fíli, you are exhausted. Go to your family.”

“They’re yours too, you should be there still,” Fíli said, lifting his head and folding his arms. The way he swayed slightly upon his feet took away any power in his words.

“I have at least had _some_ sleep, nidoyel,” said Thorin dryly. “Go. Your mother is missing you.”

Fíli grumbled a bit, his eyes rebellious. “I need to be here. I need to make sure they…”

“I’ll look after them for you,” Thorin said, taking Fíli’s shoulder and squeezing it gently. “You have my word. Fíli, part of being the leader is knowing when to delegate, and your time to do so is now.”

Fíli looked up again, and then sighed. “All right,” he said, and he was yawning even as the light lined his frame and swallowed him up.

“He’s more like me than Kíli,” Thorin said to the air, and let out a sigh of his own. “Even though Kíli resembles me more closely.”

“That’s not such a terrible thing,” murmured Bilbo. “Come along. I want to see the trap close.”

Farmer Cotton was idly picking at a loose thread on one of his gloves when the torches finally neared. A large group of about twenty Men was swaggering into the empty square, and they chuckled as they came. A single Hobbit alone seemed a perfect target for their brand of bullying.

“Cowards,” Thorin grunted. “Where are Merry and Pippin? Where is Frodo?”

“Not sure, but there’s Hobbits closing in behind this lot,” said Bilbo, peering behind the group.

Thorin hadn’t heard a thing. “How many?”

“At least fifty. Some are armed. Oh! There’s Merry!” Bilbo grabbed for Thorin’s arm – as usual, his hands passed straight through. “Blast!”

The sharp pang in his heart was swiftly muffled, and Thorin refocused upon the events unfolding before them. “Merry has been acting as general,” he said, crouching to see behind the ruffians. “He will be the one to watch.”

“I want to see my Frodo-lad,” Bilbo grumbled, his expression still put-out at forgetting their mutual inability to touch.

“Who’re you, and what d’you think you’re doing?” said the leader, a pinch-faced man with a self-important tilt in his chin.

Farmer Cotton gave him a long, level look. “I was just going to ask you that,” he said. “This isn't your country, and you're not wanted.”

“Well, you're wanted anyhow,” said the leader. “We want you. Take him lads! Lockholes for him, and give him something to keep him quiet!”

“Oh, bugger,” said Bilbo.

The Men took one step forward towards the firelight, but then the roar of voices rose all around them. Farmer Cotton watched with a grim little smile on his face as the Men slowly realised that they were completely surrounded.

“At least two hundred!” Thorin said, turning on the spot. “I see billhooks and hoes and saws…”

“There’ll be a weapon in every hand, mark my words,” Bilbo said, pride ringing in his tone. “We’re a staid and sensible people, true enough – but we’re rather good in a pinch.”

“Truer words,” Thorin agreed, and folded his arms in satisfaction as Merry came forward with his sword bright in his hand.

“We have met before,” Merry said to the leader, softly, “and I warned you not to come back here. I warn you again: you are standing in the light and you are covered by archers. If you lay a finger on this farmer, or on anyone else, you will be shot at once. Lay down any weapons that you have!”

“Beautifully done!” Thorin cheered. Bilbo was shaking his head.

“No! No, they won’t back down, you silly sod! Give him the old heave-ho, kick him in the shins! Oh… Oh you Brandybuck _whelp_ , run him out of town right this instant, don’t give him a choice in the matter!”

“You would have spared him too,” Thorin said, without turning around.

“Well… yes. But I wouldn’t have made it into his decision!” Bilbo groaned. “Oh you see? There you are, now it’s all gone to the dogs.”

For the leader did not seem to understand his peril – or at least, he did not understand Hobbits well enough to know his danger. “At 'em lads!” he cried. “Let 'em have it!”

And with these words he made a rush for the circle that enclosed them, striking out with a long knife and a heavy club. He made directly for Merry, aiming a savage blow straight at him.

Merry didn’t move an inch as the leader fell dead with four arrows in him.

That took all the fight from the others. They allowed themselves to be roped together and led away, and all their weapons were taken from them at once.

“Where’ll we put them?” shouted Farmer Cotton, giving the rope a shake.

“Into one of their huts, I say,” came a grumble, and Sam trudged into the firelight. Sting was in his hand, but it was clean of blood. “Now that all that business is cleared up, anybody know where my Gaffer’s got himself?”

“They dug up Bagshot Row, and that was a blow to him. He’s in one of them horrid new houses that the Chief’s Men used to build – back when they was building anything at all,” Cotton said. “Rosie sees to it that he’s fed better than some of the poor old bodies on that Row.”

“Bless her!” Sam said. “That’s a kindness I’ll never forget. But I don’t like the thought of him up there, so close to Bag End and all. There’ll be business with that Sharkey and that Boss before long, and they might do a mischief before the morning.”

“Choose a lad or two and fetch him to my house,” said Cotton. “The other old folks too. That should keep them out of the way of harm.”

“What now?” wondered Bilbo.

“They must press forward while the advantage is theirs,” Thorin said. “They haven’t time to spend standing here in the light!”

“There’s Frodo!” Bilbo said, and he fair danced on his furry feet. “Oh, he looks far better! He’s been eating properly. That’ll be Sam at work again, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Thorin agreed.

“We’ll camp at Cotton’s,” said Merry, “while we wait for the Tooks. When Pip gets here we will have to make for Bag End at once. I dare say our little trick has already been noticed.”

It had. Even as the small army dispersed, the sound of the horns rising up from Waymeet could be heard ringing over the little hills. “They’ll be here soon,” Merry said, and he gripped the Horn of Rohan in his fist. “Hurry UP, Pippin…”

Frodo settled comfortably enough into Tom Cotton’s battered kitchen, and Merry and Farmer Cotton began talking of how Lotho had brought such a terrible fate upon the Shire. He added little to the conversation, but listened intently as they spoke of Sandyman’s mill, of the exports, and of the Shirriffs.

A moment later, there was a cup of tea sitting by his elbow.

“No milk, I’m afraid, and no lemon,” said Rosie, giving a little bob of her head. “It’s all gone to be ‘shared’ nowadays. But the tea’s hot.”

“Rosie,” Frodo said, his eyes lighting in recognition. “How have you managed through all this? Has Sam seen you?”

“There’s a pair of loaded questions,” she said, and gave him her sweet, shy little smile. “Drink it up now, no good letting it go cold. Yes, Sam came by, and he asked about us too. We’ve been keeping as nicely as we can, thank you.”

“If you can call putting herself in danger twice every day ‘keeping nicely’,” growled Farmer Cotton, his muttonchops bristling to put shame to one of Gloin’s displays. “No matter how I argued or how her mother begged, th’lass kept going back to the Lockholes with her basket on her arm.”

“Hush, Pa,” Rosie said, and she ducked her head at Frodo’s piercing, worried gaze. “No, don’t you look at me like that, Mister Frodo sir. Don’t, please.”

“How are they?” Frodo said, after wetting his lips with his tongue and clearing his throat. “Are they…”

“None killed, though not through any sort of responsible care,” Rosie said, and her eyes were pinned to the tablecloth as though she could scorch it through force of will alone. “Old Lobelia is in a poorly way, bein’ over one hundred in the tale of years… and she’s hurtin’ inside, for that ol’ Pimple’s her son and all. Still, she’s down, but she’s not out. She’ll give any guard a tongue-lashing if they come near. Will Whitfoot’s down to skin and bone now, and he’s gone quiet and grey. Barely talks anymore; you wouldn’t think he was dull old Flourdumpling who could drone on and on for hours. Freddie Bolger’s got some spark left in him, I think, but then he’s younger. He keeps asking about the outside, anyway, which is more than many others do.”

“Rosie,” Frodo said, sad and shocked.

“But you, sir,” she said, and she laid a quick hand over his. “Whatever has happened to you?”

Frodo drew in a quick breath, and looked down at their hands. His four fingers tensed underneath her five. “A lot,” he said at last. “Too much.”

“Oh sir,” she whispered, her expression drawn down into worried, unhappy lines.

“But it’s not yours to concern yourself over,” Frodo said, looking up and giving her a tight-lipped smile. “I hope to be more like Freddie than Whil Whitfoot, but we’ll see.”

“You’re not like either, sir. You’re not like anyone,” she said, low, and gave his hand a quick, firm squeeze before letting it go as fast as hot coals. “Drink that up now, Mister Frodo. It’ll only do you good.”

“As if Rosie would ever stop concerning herself with anything,” muttered Old Cotton, tugging at his whiskers. “As I was saying, Master Merry, there’s naught but Shirriffs between Bywater and Hobbiton nowadays - and we’d not be counting on any cover either, for they’ve torn all the trees out between here and the Mill. We’ve no place to set an ambush, and they’ll be ready for the bait-and-trap trick next time.” Their heads bent together, they began discussing the whys and wherefores of the situation all over again.

Bilbo was quivering slightly at Thorin’s side. “Are you certain you are all right?” Thorin asked him. He’d learned his lesson too well with Frerin: he’d probably drive everyone mad asking after their health, but he’d never assume that his family was unaffected ever again. Best to ask and be annoying.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, though his throat was working quickly. “I’m perfectly all right. But Frodo… he’s better, surely? He is getting better. She could see something, just by looking at him. But I thought he seemed better?”

“He is, as far as it goes,” said Thorin. “Âzyungelê, I fear to say it, but… I think we must face the possibility that he is as healed as he may ever be.”

Bilbo’s face spasmed, before it smoothed out. Then he gave a single, short nod.

“He’s well-loved,” Thorin said, “he has Sam, Merry and Pippin, and as you can see there are others like Rosie who care for him.”

“Quite right,” Bilbo said, though he was wringing his hands. “And he has that Baggins constitution. Yes, he’ll be all right. He’ll be quite all right.”

Thorin forebore to comment.

They were interrupted by Sam, bursting in with his gaffer. The old fellow did not look much older, but he was a little deafer.

“Mr. Baggins!” he said loudly. “Glad indeed I am to see you safe back. But I've a bone to pick with you, in a manner o' speaking, if I may make so bold. You didn't never ought to have a'sold Bag End, as I always said. That's what started all the mischief. And while you're been trapessing in foreign parts, chasing Black Men up mountains from what my Sam says, though what for he don't make clear, they've been and dug up Bagshot Row and ruined my taters!”

Thorin carefully looked away from Bilbo, training his eyes upon the ceiling.

“Oh go on. Laugh, you know you want to,” said Bilbo, resigned.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Gamgee,” said Frodo, carefully polite. “But now I've come back, I'll do my best to make amends.”

“Well, you can't say fairer than that,” said Gaffer Gamgee. “Mr. Frodo Baggins is a _real_ gentlehobbit, I always have said, whatever you may think of some others of the name, begging your pardon.”

“I rather feel I should be taking offense at that,” Bilbo remarked.

“He means Lotho, dearest,” said Thorin.

“I know that, but the family’s going to be taking its lumps from two directions from here in. First Bilbo the mad old baggage, and now greedy, foolish Lotho! No, the respectable Baggins name shall never recover, I think.”

“Twas a Baggins that saved the world,” Thorin reminded him.

Bilbo shrugged. “That’s of less interest to them than the gaffer’s taters, believe you me. They’ll pay attention to that later, I’m sure. But now-”

“And I hope my Sam's behaved hisself and given satisfaction?” the Gaffer was saying, holding his cap in his hands.

“Perfect satisfaction, Mr. Gamgee,” said Frodo. “Indeed, if you will believe it, he's now one of the most famous people in all the lands, and they are making songs about his deeds from here to the Sea and beyond the Great River.”

Sam went purple, but the look he gave Frodo was full of thanks and love. “Look at Rosie!” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin craned to see the lass in the doorway, her eyes shining and her lips parted in a soft, wondering smile.

“It takes a lot o' believing,” said the Gaffer, gruffly, “though I can see he's been mixing in strange company. What's come of his weskit? I don't hold with wearing ironmongery, whether it wears well or no.”

“Not a word about soft silly Hobbits now,” Bilbo said. “Not. one. word.”

“I have nothing but admiration for your people,” said Thorin, perfectly honest. “They needn’t know the workings of war or weaponry to have all my respect.”

Bilbo’s head whipped about and he stared at Thorin. “Well,” he said, and then he let out a shaky little laugh. “You do manage to steal my breath on a regular basis, don’t you?”

Thorin smiled. “As you do for me, Bilbo.”

The night passed, inching along. “Come on, Pippin,” Merry muttered to himself. “Come on, come on, come _on…_ ”

Eventually Merry could stand no more, and he grabbed his pack and sword and left into the night. Frodo began to nod into his cup.

“Come along now, Mr Frodo,” whispered Sam, “let’s put our heads down. No good staying awake to worry, and it’ll be a sight better than some of the places we’ve kipped.”

“There’s the sitting room, or you can take my room,” said Rosie, also speaking low. “Jolly might share, too…”

“No, we won’t put you out of your bed,” said Sam, “we’ll bundle up in the sitting room. The old folks can have the beds: they need ‘em more.”

“Oh!” Rosie’s hand flew up before her mouth. “Yes, of course! Your gaffer, Sam, he can have my bed. The others can take Jolly and Nibs’ rooms… I hope we have enough towels.”

“We’ll make do, love, there’s no need to play hostess in times like these,” said Cotton. “Go see that everyone’s got a place, and then we’ll turn in. Where’s Merry put himself?”

“He won’t be back before sunrise,” Frodo said. “He’ll be watching for the ruffians.”

“Come on, Mister Frodo,” said Sam, and he led the other towards the corridor. Thorin and Bilbo followed him, watching as the pair curled up before the fire in their Lothlorien cloaks.

“Do we stay?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin made himself comfortable before the fire, crossing his legs and leaning against a wall. “We stay. Or at least I do. I promised Fíli, and he needs the respite far more than I.”

“I suppose I should too.” Bilbo sat down, and heaved a massive sigh. “It beggars belief, after everything else… that this should be the last of it, and in our soft, peaceful little country too!”

“The last of it to plague the West, at any rate,” said Thorin. “We have learned that the East is sorely troubled by the Cult of Sauron. Gimli and his friends have a rough plan to de-fang them.”

Bilbo smiled up at him. “You don’t even attempt to hide how proud you are anymore.”

“Pointless endeavour,” he said, and snorted, half in amusement at himself and half at the memory of Hrera berating him for trying to deny how much he loved his brave, bold star. “My grandmother is a tyrant, but she is often right – as galling as that is!”

“Oh?” Bilbo leaned his chin upon his hand. “Tell me about her, to pass the time.”

“Not so enamoured of the sounds of Hobbits sleeping?”

“It’s a lot less noisome than the sound of _Dwarves_ sleeping, I’ll thank you.”

The fire was pleasant, and Thorin could almost imagine that they were tucked together in Bag-End-as-it-was, speaking comfortably together after a good meal and a pipe. “There’s a fact. Well then, to my grandmother, Hrera of the Line of Telphor. She is a Broadbeam princess,” he began, folding his hands on his stomach, “her clan have no Halls anymore, not for an Age and more, but they maintained their lines and records in their exile as best they could….”

He spoke on and on, and Bilbo listened eagerly, even as Rosie crept into the sitting room with her blanket upon her arm. She looked between Sam and Frodo, nestled together tightly, and then lay herself down quite close – not touching, but nearby. Her little curly head looked like a dropped dandelion as her hair spilled over the floor.

“That’s a good lass,” Thorin broke off his tale to say. “A kind one.”

“Hmm? Oh, the youngest Cotton. A good family, if a poor one,” Bilbo said, blinking at the abrupt change of topic. “I taught many of the young ones their letters. She has always been a kind lass, if not very learned.”

“We can’t all be scholars and poets, Bilbo,” said Thorin, amused.

“No, some of us have to be preposterously noble Dwarf Kings,” Bilbo said, tossing his head.

“Not such a terrible thing,” Thorin teased back, feeling warmth bloom in his stomach at delivering Bilbo’s own words back to him so neatly.

“ _Cheeky_ ones at that,” Bilbo added, sniffing. His nose twitched in that so-familiar way, and Thorin laughed.

“I admit it, and proudly too, for I must confess to pranking my cousins over and again when we were children. Frerin was my right hand, but I was most definitely the ringleader.”

“Really? You?” Bilbo sat up sharply. “Good gracious, that seems unlikely; you’ve always been so dour. But then, I suppose many terrible things had happened to you by the time I met you.”

Thorin braced himself for the old sour surge of sorrow, guilt and anger – and it arrived, right on cue. He had been doing so _well_ , came the disappointed thought, he had been… His hand rose, fingers gripping at the bead twined in the new point of his beard.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Bilbo said then, a soft exhalation. “Thorin, dear one, I am sorry. I should not have said that.”

“It’s all right,” Thorin said, and he shouldered the feeling and the thought away as best he could. There was a tired hollow left in its absence. It was not real: the howling dogs were neglected and angry, that was all. “As I have told you before, Bilbo, I am better than I have been. But like Frodo, I may be as healed as I am ever going to be.”

“And I love you,” Bilbo said, as fierce and huffish as always. “I love you, and I will love you even when you are sad and angry. You have loved me through it all, haven’t you? Well, Master Oakenshield, I may not be stone but I’m as stubborn as you any day of the week.”

“I love you too,” Thorin said, quietly. The dogs lowered their howling to a whine.

Perhaps one day they would be silent forever, but he very much doubted it.  

“Tell me more about your family,” Bilbo said, and he scooted closer. “If you want to. Just to while away the hours, not as penance or because I demand it or any silly nonsense like that.”

Thorin blinked, looking up at the homely little ceiling above his head, with its exposed beams and baskets hanging from them. “All right then; it’s a long ways til morning yet. Have I ever spoken of Dís’ husband, Víli?”

“Not to my recollection, I don’t think so.”

“Did you never wonder why she did not come to the throne after me? It is a long tale, and it begins in Ered Luin, in the years of hunger…”

As he spoke, Rosie rolled closer to Frodo and Sam, her hands inching towards them in her sleep.

At last the morning dawned crisp and grey, fog rolling in from the Old Forest and burning away in the sunlight. Thorin blinked and licked his lips, which were rubbery from speaking. Bilbo was nodding slightly at his side.

“Wake up, dearest, it’s day,” he murmured.

“Already? But you were going to tell me about the prank you and Frerin and Dáin pulled on old Fundin back when you were eighteen,” Bilbo mumbled. His hair was flattened upon the side of his head, and the skin of his cheek was folded and marked from the press of his own hand. He looked thoroughly charming to Thorin’s biased eyes, but he restrained the urge to tell him so. “Oh, would you look at that?”

For Rosie had tucked herself neatly beside Frodo, even as she slept, so that she and Sam bracketed him against the chill of the night air.

“She’d be mortified to know she’d done that,” Bilbo remarked. “It’s not the done thing; not mannerly, you understand. Could you do the girl a kindness and rouse her before the others get up? So she can escape and compose herself a little.”

“As you wish.” Thorin stretched his stiff arms and legs, and then walked (rather creakily) over to Rosie and crouched down by her head. “Rosie Cotton, wake! The day is here!”

Her eyelids fluttered, but it was Frodo’s voice that answered with a groan. Perhaps he had grown used to hearing Thorin’s suggestions, much as Gimli had in the beginning, thought Thorin in dismay. “Sam?” Frodo said, the word blurred with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” grumbled Sam. “Too early to get up an’ fight, anyrates.”

Rosie’s eyes snapped open, and she stiffened in shock and realisation. Then she bolted to her feet, gathering up her blankets in clumsy arms, and tore from the room with her face burning scarlet.

Thorin turned to Bilbo, holding out his hands helplessly, at a complete loss.

“No, that didn’t go so well, did it,” said Bilbo, wincing. He was slapping at his legs to wake them. “Oh dear. I wanted to avoid that.”

It appeared that Thorin had woken them at an opportune moment, however, as Merry came charging back into the house with a great huffing and clatter. “The Tooks are as mad as a beehive knocked off a branch,” he announced. “I’ve just taken a message. They’ve raised all their country, and the word is spreading like wildfire. The ruffians that were watching on Tuckborough have fled off south, those that escaped alive. The Thain has gone after them, to hold off the big gang down that way; he's sending Pippin back here with all the other folk he can spare. They’ll be here any minute.”

“What’s the bad news?” said Frodo, his gaze even and piercing.

Merry grimaced. “There’s a big mob about four miles away. It’s the Waymeet gang, just as we thought, but a great many stray scoundrels have joined up with them. There must be close on a hundred of them now, and they’re torching everything as they come. Curse them!”

“Ugly-minded folks always scorn and destroy those things they can’t take,” said Sam. “We’ll rebuild what’s burned, and better too.”

“But a hundred!” Merry’s jaw clenched. “This lot won’t stop to talk, not even in a trap. They’ll kill if they can.”

“I don’t want any killing,” Frodo said, lifting his eyes. “Not even of the ruffians, if it can be helped.”

“If Tooks don't come sooner, we'd best get behind cover and shoot without arguing,” said Cotton from the door. “There's got to be some fighting before this is settled, Mr. Frodo.”

“My dear Frodo, we shan’t win anything by being sad and shocked,” said Merry, as gently as he could.

Frodo let out a heavy sigh, and nodded as Sam helped him up.

“Knock, knock!” came a cheery voice from the window. “Up and at them, slug-a-beds, we’ve been marching long before dawn! Incidentally, is there anything to eat?”

“Pippin!” Merry cried, and he whirled to see his cousin grinning broadly at him, his arms folded on the window-sill.

“With a hundred Tooks after me,” Pippin said, “we won’t all fit in Farmer Cotton’s house, nor his barn for that matter!”

“You’re not going to try, there’s enough bodies in this house as it is,” said Cotton.

“And you’re not putting my Bill out of the barn!” Sam said firmly.

Merry deflated in relief, his thoughts obviously moving very fast. “A hundred, plus our own,” he said. “That gives me enough sturdy hobbitry to deal with these thugs. No, don’t come in, Pip – we’ll come out.”

“I’m serious about that something to eat,” Pippin said, as Merry bolted out the door. “It’s been a long time since breakfast.”

“Not second breakfast?” said Sam, throwing him a winter apple. Pippin caught it easily in one hand and took a bite.

“Not these days, Sam m’lad! Did you find your Gaffer?”

“That I did, and he’s none too the worse for wear, thankee Mister Pippin. But it’s a hard blow to see our little garden all turned to ugly brick and mortar.”

“It gets worse,” Pippin said, and a dangerous light filled his eyes. He looked entirely a veteran soldier of Gondor in that moment. “The Southfarthing is even more wrecked than we first saw on our way in. It’s not just trees and buildings, either. We’ve been going over-field, and there’s farms lying fallow everywhere. Those that are being sown are done too close; the soil won’t be decent in another two seasons, mark me. I’ll wager that’s what has happened to the rest of the fields. They’re trying to force as much as they can, as fast as they can.”

“Disgusting,” Sam muttered.

“I didn’t understand a word of that,” Thorin said in an aside to Bilbo.

“I’ll be furious for us both, then,” said Bilbo, his ears hot and red. “Over-sowing the fields means that the earth loses too much of its vigour, too quickly. Do it enough times, and it won’t support a crop at all. It means taking too much away, and not giving anything back. It’s a ruinous, greedy way of farming.”

“There’s more and more of those hideous little huts scattered everywhere too,” Pippin said, and he bit into his apple with a little more force. “We flushed a few of those villains out, but more escaped and ran to find their fellows. No doubt they will have all joined with the big group.”

“Come on, I think I have a plan!” Merry shouted to them. “Pippin, I need you! These ruffians are big, but there won’t be a single one that understands warfare at all. We have to work quickly!”

“Come on, Mister Frodo,” said Sam, and he shook out their Elven cloaks. “Back to work!”

“Did you see Rosie just before?” Frodo whispered. “Why did she run off like that?”

“Embarrassed, I suppose,” Sam said after a beat. “Got to say, I am a bit too. I didn’t want her to know that I snore so dreadful loud.”

Frodo smiled. “Oh Sam, you don’t snore at all.”

“Kind of you to say, Mister Frodo, but Gandalf himself told me so, and a Wizard wouldn’t lie to spare my feelings on the matter.”

Merry’s voice could easily be heard from outside. “We need to get to the Bywater Road, as quick as winking,” he was saying. “Where all the hedges are. We’ll line the high banks, and lie low. Sam and Farmer Cotton can get some carts together: we need a barricade to pin them in one place. Let’s go!”

The Tooks let out a great cheer, and Frodo shared a look with Sam.

“Here’s to the end of it, Mister Frodo,” said Sam.

“And here you are again with me,” Frodo half-sighed, and together they left Cotton’s house.

Rosie’s bright head could be seen from the hallway, peering around a doorjamb. Her eyes were wide and huge and worried.

“She’s fond of Sam, isn’t she,” Bilbo said, following Thorin’s gaze to the young hobbit lass. “That’s a fine match, as my father would have said.”

“And you? What do you say?” Thorin raised an eyebrow down at Bilbo, who scrunched his nose.

“Sam most certainly fancies her, but he’s also thoroughly devoted to Frodo. And Rosie herself seems to care for my lad too, but it’s hard to know. Tcch, no, I’ve no idea how it might play out. If I were them, I’d happily set up house all together and let the tongues wag as they might. But there’s a fight to be had first, and so any scandals will have to wait.”

“After all this, I suspect that any scandal will be small indeed,” Thorin said, leaving to follow Sam and Frodo. Bilbo snorted.

“Not to Hobbits, my dear. Gossip is worth more than coin in the Northfarthing, as the old saying goes!”

Merry’s trap worked beautifully. The Waymeet Men stomped into the field, roaring and swearing and threatening as they went, until they were funnelled onto the Bywater Road. There they were met by a barricade of waggons, behind which stood a line of Hobbits all with bows drawn and arrows nocked.

It was at that point that the Men realised that the high bank by the road was also lined with Hobbits, and that three more wagons were being pushed behind them, effectively corralling them together and cutting off any retreat.

“Garn, what’s this!” shouted one, and he kicked at the waggon that blocked his path to escape. “You little rat-folk, what d’you think this is? The Boss is getting angry, you hear me?”

“Oh, we hear you,” came Pippin’s grumble from somewhere above. “Wish we didn’t.”

“Shh.”

“This is a trap,” said Merry, standing up so that his helm and armour could be spied over the hedge – though he made sure that all they could see were his head and shoulders. “Your fellows from Hobbiton walked into one too, and now one is dead and the rest are prisoners. Lay down your weapons! Then go back twenty paces and sit down. Any who try to break out will be shot.”

But these ruffians, more numerous and more desperate, could not now be so easily cowed. Some handful of them obeyed, but the rest let out a roar and set upon them for betrayal at once. Then a score or so charged the wagons, where arrows were loosed upon them. The air was filled with shrieking, and Thorin whirled to see another group pushing at the other end of the road, tipping the waggon there onto its side and clambering over it to freedom.

“Two Hobbits killed!” shouted Sam, and Sting flashed and glittered as fiercely on this gentle soil as it had ever done in Mordor.

“They’re scattering across country!” yelled Pippin. “They won’t get far if they’re going towards Woody End: all that land is alive with our hunters now! There’s nowhere for them to go!”

Merry lowered his dripping sword, and blew a horn-call, and there was an answer from the forest to the south. “There, now they’ve a warning,” he said, satisfied.

“Merry, the bank!” Thorin said sharply.

For some of the Men in their desperation were trying to climb it, trampling Hobbits and their own comrades in their rush. The Hobbits laid about with axes, and the air hissed with their arrows, but some were pulled down. Many of the strongest and most desperate ruffians got out upon the west side, and were more bent upon killing than escape. The line was wavering.

“Pippin!” Merry barked, and he flicked his sword in his hand, blood spattering a line upon the ground. “With me!”

“Gondor and the King!” Pippin cried, and he ran ahead, his own blade held above his head in a mighty two-handed swing. He took out two Men with the first blow, then turned and delivered another swing that sent another Man yelping and scrambling away, clutching at his arm.

“And STAY out!” he shouted after the ruffian, before he sprang after yet another.

“Bullroarer!” Thorin cheered, throwing his fists into the air. “Yes! Now to your right, Pippin. Feint here – yes, now left! Got him!”

“Take that! And that! You beastly vandals, you cowardly vultures, you- you _auctioneers_ , you!” Bilbo shouted, hopping from foot to foot in his excitement.

A hobbit cried out and was down: Bilbo spun on his heel in shock. Then another screamed and lay still. There were renewed shouts of anger amongst the Shirefolk, and then their blows redoubled in savagery.

“I surrender!” hollered one Man, as a sturdy Hobbitwoman came close to splitting him in half in her wrath. “I surrender, please!”

“Goodwife, stay your blade!” Frodo cried, and he stepped in with his hands raised. “I know their crimes are deserving of all your fury, but he has surrendered! We cannot meet surrender with death!”

“Folco is dead!” she wept, and Frodo gathered her up into a fierce embrace, tucking her ravaged face against his shoulder. “He’s dead! These monsters killed him!”

“Oh Goodwife, I am so sorry,” Frodo said, and there were tears in his own eyes. “I am so sorry – but killing this Man will not bring Folco back.”

“Watch Merry,” Bilbo shouted, “he’s fighting the leader!”

Thorin twirled on the spot, searching for the plumed horse-helm. There was Merry, hard-pressed by a great brute of a Man whose weapon was a heavy broad-bladed greatsword. He had the higher ground and was pushing Merry back down the slope, making every use of his longer reach that he could.

“Oh damn,” Thorin whispered, and began to race for the battling pair.

“He’s getting close to the edge of the bank, he’ll fall,” Bilbo said, puffing. “Where are all the archers?”

“This is chaos, it would be too easy for an archer to hit a Hobbit in the confusion,” Thorin replied, ducking through a Man as he was wrestled to the ground by six furious Hobbits. “Merry must have ordered them to cover the edges of his trap…”

“Well, I could hope that they’d show a bit of initiative,” Bilbo fretted.

“Ah!” Thorin made it to where Merry was at last, “Mahal watch over him, he’s losing ground too fast. He needs to get around this lout. Merry, you’ve nothing behind you but air! Get forward!”

Merry was evidently too preoccupied on not being stabbed to really listen, but something must have gotten through, for he rounded to the left and swung his sword around towards the ruffian’s weak side. The Man leaped back to avoid the swing, before he snarled and stabbed down for Merry’s feet.

But Merry knew that trick, and his sword was there to meet the attack. “Yes!” Thorin hissed, and then turned to Bilbo. “Gimli taught him that, in Rohan.”

“Not the time, dear!” Bilbo said, biting at his fingers. “Merry, get away from there, you madcap young rascal, _you’re going to…!_ You’re… going to kick him in the berries and stab him through the neck as he falls… ? Right. Jolly good.” He cleared his throat. “Capital job, well done.”

Merry kicked the body from the ledge and shouted out, “Pippin! Draw back, all! Archers, cover the centre!”

And as quickly and quietly as only Hobbits can contrive, abruptly only the Men were standing where there had been a melee a bare ten seconds earlier. The fighters melted back behind the bristling ring of arrowheads, all nocked and aimed at the remnants of the ruffians.

“There’s a lot of these Men, all dead,” said Bilbo, looking around. “And there’s Hobbits not moving either.”

“More Men than Hobbits,” answered Thorin, and once again the familiar, horrible post-battle silence fell. He breathed it, shouldered it, and forged ahead. “We should find out how the rest have fared.”

Merry dragged off his helm and wiped his forehead. “Let’s lock these idiots up,” he said, and he sounded terribly weary. “Now we need to see to the wounded.”

“My sister,” someone was sobbing, and there were more cries of sadness and fear arising. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut.

“It’s all right if you need to go,” said Thorin, as softly as he was able.

“I’m staying,” Bilbo said, and he opened his eyes and stared up at Thorin with a touch of defiance. “Just bad memories. The last time I stood at the aftermath of a battle, it was me doing all the weeping.”

Thorin lowered his gaze.

“I’m not weeping now,” Bilbo added, with a little shrug. Then he smiled rather sadly at Thorin’s startled look and began to make his way over to where Cotton and his son Jolly were laying injured Hobbits (and even one or two of the ruffians) onto the waggons. “Keep up, Thorin!” he called behind him.

There were more screams at the edges of the clearing, and a Man was fighting still, eyes wild and mouth open and red with fear and delirium. There was a groaning Hobbit rolling at their feet as they passed. “Nevertheless, I doubt I will ever be ready for this bit,” Bilbo said, watching with a torn and helpless expression.

Thorin sighed and nodded. “It’s never easy,” he said, as the uninjured Men were chained up and led away. “No matter how many battlefields you see. There’s a strange, transparent, faded sort of feeling to it – Dáin is better at describing it than I am – but you never do forget.”

Bilbo squared his shoulders. “Well, no doubt this lot’ll be cleared away in no time,” he said, his chin jutting forward. “That is to say, it had _better_ be, or you’ll be able to hear the complaining in Minas Tirith.”

“Nineteen Hobbits dead,” Cotton was saying in a hushed voice as they neared.

“I had hoped to lose nobody,” Merry said, bitterly. “How many of these scoundrels did we take out?”

“Seventy or so,” Cotton said. “By my best guess. Nothing left now but Bag-End.”

“I’m not going up there until I’ve had more than an apple,” said Pippin. “I’m going to need all my strength, I can feel it. And some of our fellows have been marching through the night only to fight a battle on this end, and they’re not used to it.”

“We should take care of them first,” Frodo said, and he looked up at the churned bank-side and at the hill rising over it. “We should lay them together and write down their names. I don’t want to leave them here, tossed upon a waggon like a bunch of marrows for market.”

“True, and that’s sound thinking,” Cotton said, tugging his chin. “And these ruffians?”

“Sandpit’s not far,” piped up Jolly.

“Perfect,” said Merry, with a savage little grin.

A late midday meal was brought out from the nearby holes, and a meagre spread it was too. Then a hush fell over the gathering. Frodo stood up slowly, and his face spoke of sadness and steely resolve.

“Well, I suppose it is time now that we dealt with the ‘Chief’.”

They organised swiftly, and with few words. An escort of two dozen Hobbits was organised: the strongest and fiercest of the lot. The rest were put to the grisly business of cleaning up after the battle. Thorin watched for a moment as bare little chins set hard in determination, small shoulders stiff and unyielding in their soft cotton shirts, as they bent to the task at hand.

Then, on foot, the four adventurers, Farmer Cotton and their escort, made their way over Bywater and towards the village itself, along the well-beloved, well-known old paths that led to The Hill.

“I feel I might cry, or shout, or do anything at all,” said Pippin, looking about. “It’s all turned to foulness and ugliness and filth!”

“I was wrong. It’s worse, so much worse than I saw in the Lady’s mirror,” Sam whispered, and he gripped Sting’s hilt at his hip. “That mill, now. It looms over you like any tower o’ Mordor.”

“And the River stinks to high heaven,” added Merry.

“All the trees in Bywater are gone,” Bilbo said in a distant tone. “Every last one.”

"Burushruka igbulul e," said Thorin, and wished he could hug the Hobbit close, if only to make him feel less alone. 

As they came over the Bridge, Farmer Cotton said, “Now I feel I ought to warn ‘ee, we’re not to the worst of it yet. Bywater wasn’t hit nearly so hard as Hobbiton Town. Brace yourself for the sight, lads, for it’s a terrible one.”

From the height of Bywater Bridge they could see all the way to the old Grange – except it was utterly gone. Not a chestnut remained, no banks or hedgerows, nothing but bogged-down waggons in empty fields churned to mud, surrounded by tarred and tatty sheds. Bagshot Row was a quarry. Bag End could hardly be made out beneath the terrible chimney, belching black fumes into the air.

A suspicion began to dawn in Thorin’s mind. “Were you there at Isengard, my love?” he asked, frowning. “I cannot remember now… but if you were, then this is…”

“Isengard in miniature,” finished Bilbo. His throat bobbed.

As the four travellers stood in utter horror at the sight, there came the sound of a low laugh. By the awful new mill, a grubby hobbit was lounging upon the fence. “Don’t like it, Sam?” he sneered. “'But you always was soft. I thought you'd gone off in one o' them ships you used to prattle about, sailing, sailing. What d'you want to come back for? We've work to do in the Shire now.”

“So I see,” said Sam. “No time for washing, but time for wall-propping. But see here, Ted Sandyman, I've a score to pay in this village, and don't you make it any longer with your jeering, or you'll foot a bill too big for your purse.”

Sandyman spat over the wall: “Pshawww!” he said. “You can't touch me. I'm a friend o' the Boss's. But he'll touch you all right, if I have any more of your mouth.”

“What a charming specimen,” said Pippin, his lip curling.

“Don't waste any more words on the fool, Sam!” said Frodo. “I hope there are not many more hobbits that have become like this. It would be a worse trouble than all the damage the Men have done.”

“You are dirty and insolent, Sandyman,' said Merry. 'And also very much out of your reckoning. We are just going up the Hill to remove your precious Boss. We have dealt with his Men.”

The grimy Hobbit gaped at the dozen strong Hobbits behind Merry, as though he were only now noticing them there. Then he fumbled at his belt for a horn, sounding it with a shaky and unmusical squawk.

“Save your breath!” laughed Merry. “I've a better.”

The silver horn glinted in the light as he raised it, and once more the cry sang out over the hills: _Awake! Fear! Fire! Foes! Awake!_

Sandyman scrabbled back as Hobbits emerged in a trickle, then a flood, from the dingy little sheds and cramped new houses, all shouting with relief and happiness. The party moved on as a much grander procession, and he stood and stared as they passed, all the while with his mouth gaping foolishly open.

“My garden!” Bilbo said in absolute outrage as they neared Bag End at last. It was covered in piles of refuse, and there were crooked huts and sheds crammed into every last square yard. “Would you just _look_ at my garden!”

“I’m so sorry, dear,” sighed Thorin.

Bilbo fumed, his fists balled at his side. “ _My tomatoes won prizes,_ damn it all!”

Pippin looked at his companions, and then he shrugged, before leaning forward and tugging firmly on the bell-pull. No bell sounded inside the hole, and Bilbo’s ears and neck went scarlet with rage.

“My father built this hobbit-hole,” he gritted through his teeth. “For my mother.”

“Try knocking,” suggested Merry, and they all fell to bashing at the door. No answer was forthcoming.

“Either they’ve terrible manners, or nobody is at home,” said Pippin. “Let’s force the door and find out which it is!”

“And I used to get it fresh-painted every spring too, lovely and shiny,” Bilbo mourned. “Now look at it!”

Thorin said nothing. It was, after all, a dreadful thing to walk into your home after it had been made the haunt of monsters.

At length, after some pushing and shoving, they managed to get the door open. A reek blew out of the corridor at them, and more piles of rubbish were stacked in the entrance-hall.

“Right,” said Sam, beetling his brows and rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s find ‘em. They’ve explanations to give.”

But a search turned up no Lotho, nor anybody else inside Bag End – just more rubbish and squalor, as well as plans upon plans for more smoke-belching machines such as Sandyman’s mill. “Where is that miserable Lotho hiding? said Merry in confusion.

“Nothing here but rats and mice,” said Sam. “We’ve been through every room, and the place is as empty as grudging charity.”

“Does the smell count at all?” said Pippin. “It’s certainly got enough body.”

“This is worse than Mordor!” burst Sam, smacking his fist against the wall in frustration. “Much worse in a way. It comes home to you, as they say; because it is home, and you remember it before it was all ruined.”

“Yes, this is Mordor,” said Frodo, thoughtfully, looking up at the cobwebs that smothered the beams above them. Then he cast his too-old eyes over the wreck that had become of his home - the home in which he had been raised from the age of nineteen onwards. His shoulders fell. “Just another one of its works. Saruman was doing its work all the time, even when he thought he was working for himself. And the same with those that Saruman tricked, like Lotho.”

Bilbo shared a quick look with Thorin. “We’re not alone in our suspicions,” he said low.

Merry looked around in disgust and dismay. “Let's get out!” he said. “If I had known all the mischief he had caused, I should have done far more than pilfer his pipeweed and drink his wine.”

“No doubt, no doubt! But you did not, and so I am able to welcome you home,” came a voice from the door. There standing upon the stoop was Saruman himself, looking sleek, clean and self-satisfied. His eyes shone with health and malice.

“Well, there you have it,” said Bilbo, resigned.

Frodo turned to face the Wizard fully, his own eyes flashing. “Sharkey,” he said, grim and flat.

Saruman laughed. “So you have heard the name, have you? All my people used to call me that in Isengard, I believe. A sign of affection, possibly. But evidently you did not expect to see me here.”

“I did not,' said Frodo. 'But I might have guessed.”

“You made me laugh, you hobbit-lordlings, riding along with all those great people so secure and so pleased with your little selves,” Saruman said, sneering. The cruel tilt of his lips had become even more pronounced: all faint resemblance to Gandalf had been burned away. “You thought you had done very well out of it all, and could now just amble back and have a nice quiet time in the country. Saruman's home could be all wrecked, and he could be turned out, but no one could touch yours. Oh no! Gandalf would look after your affairs.”

“And yet, Gandalf is not here, and we have settled matters ourselves and without his aid,” said Frodo calmly. “Instead you must deal with us.”

Saruman laughed again. “O yes, when his tools have done their task he drops them. What trusting, naïve fools you are! Such idiots deserve setting-to-rights, and so I came ahead even as you talked and dawdled and bumbled along. Call my actions your wake-up call, if you will, or perhaps an instruction into how the world truly operates. It would have been a sharper lesson, if only you had given me a little more time and more Men. Still I have already done much that you will find it hard to mend or undo in your lives. And it will be pleasant to think of that and set it against my injuries.”

“Well, if that is what you find pleasure in,” said Frodo, “I pity you. It will be a pleasure of memory only, I fear. Go at once and never return!”

“He’s letting him go?” Bilbo cried, and he was echoed by the Hobbits of the village who had come crowding up to the door of Bag End.

“He can’t be let go!” they muttered angrily, “he’s a villain and a murderer, the worst of the lot! Kill him!”

Thorin tipped his head and regarded Saruman, who appeared perfectly at ease as he flipped a hand at their hostile faces. “Kill him!” he mocked. “Oh, you think there are enough of you, do you? You think that when I lost my goods I lost my powers? Whoever strikes me shall be accursed. And if my blood stains the Shire, it shall wither and never again be healed!”

The crowd recoiled, and even the sturdy Hobbits of Cotton’s Bywater escort quailed somewhat.

“Saruman,” said Thorin, and though he had pitched his voice soft and low, he sounded quite loud in the sudden fearful hush of the village.

The black eyes met his.

“Saruman,” Thorin repeated quietly, “you are a liar. Your staff is broken. I was there and I saw it break. I watched it happen. You have no colour, and were thrown from the Order.”

It was so tightly controlled as to be nearly imperceptible… and yet, the Wizard flinched as though receiving a hidden blow to the core of him.

Frodo drew himself up, and his voice was clear and strong when he spoke: “Do not believe him! He has lost all power, save his voice that can still daunt you and deceive you, if you let it. But I will not have him slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing. Go, Saruman, by the speediest way!”

“Frodo heard you,” said Bilbo in relief.

“Apparently so,” Thorin said, still holding Saruman’s gaze. “And Frodo was not the only one. Do as the Ringbearer bade you and go, Wizard. You and your lies are not welcome here. Go hence and find a better life than vengeance and bitterness.”

Saruman snarled wordlessly, but nevertheless he raised his voice. “Worm! Worm!”

Out of a nearby hut came Wormtongue, crawling upon his belly like a frightened and cowed dog. He was lank and thin, and his eyes were dreadful to see.

“To the road again, Worm!” spat Saruman. “These fine princes and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!”

“He just about made the word _princes_ sound like profanity,” said Bilbo. “I rather think that was aimed at you, dear.”

Thorin smiled. “I sincerely hope it was.”

The wretched pair turned away, and the village began to breathe easier. But as Saruman passed close to Frodo, a blade shone in his hand and he stabbed down swiftly. It was turned aside on the mithril coat with a skittering sound.

“Oh glory,” gasped Bilbo. “Is he all right, is he all right? Thorin, I swear on the hair on my toes, that coat is the greatest gift I ever received, for it has saved his life over and again. Oh, that scoundrel, that murderous scoundrel! He can’t even _leave_ with a pinch of grace and dignity; he has to try even fouler methods of vengeance?”

“Some folk have veins in them that prove too treacherous to mine,” murmured Thorin, even as Pippin propped Frodo back up and Merry drew his sword with fury in his face. Sam was faster and had thrown Saruman to the ground, Sting bright in his hand and his breath heaving.

“No, Sam!” Frodo croaked, rubbing his chest and gulping for breath. “Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.”

Saruman rose to his feet slowly, all the while staring at Frodo. The look in his black eyes was terrible to behold: understanding, and hatred, and wonder all intermingled. “You have grown, Halfling,” he grated. “Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you! Well, I go and I will trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell.”

“Did you foretell _this,_ you disgusting, wicked old-” and Bilbo made an obscene gesture at the Wizard’s back.

As Saruman passed, all the assembled Hobbits tightened their hands around their weapons. They said nothing, but their expressions spoke volumes. Behind Saruman, Wormtongue hesitated for a moment, his face torn. Then he scampered after his master with a whimper.

“Wormtongue!” called Frodo. “You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.”

Merry looked politely incredulous at this. “Um, Frodo, I know you didn’t spend all that much time in Rohan… but…”

“I must try,” Frodo muttered. “Wormtongue, your answer?”

The Man, thin and lank and desperate, halted. A wild hope appeared in his eyes, and he leaned a little towards them as though towards the possibility of escape.

Then Saruman laughed, and all at once Wormtongue’s shoulders curled in on themselves like a beaten cur. “No evil?” jeered Saruman. “Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?”

Wormtongue cringed and cowered beneath his uplifted arms, the very image of abject hopelessness. “No, no!”

“Then I will,” said Saruman. “Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.”

Wormtongue’s head jerked up. His eyes were red and deranged. “You told me to; you made me do it!”

Saruman laughed again, low and cruel. “You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!”

He gave a final contemptuous sneer, and kicked Wormtongue in the face as he grovelled, sending the Man sprawling. Then Saruman spun on his heel, robes casting out, and made to leave. But at that instant something in the air changed; Wormtongue growled, standing sharply with his back hunched. Something glittered with deadly intent in his hand. Snarling like a dog, he sprang onto Saruman’s back, and with a fistful of white hair he jerked his head back to expose the long, pale throat and slit it with his dagger.

With a yell he let the corpse fall and ran, stumbling and sobbing and snarling, down the lane, lurching between two legs and all fours. The Hobbits shouted in shock; bows twanged. Before Frodo could shout or Thorin could even think to speak, Wormtongue fell dead with four arrows in him.

“Mahal have mercy,” Thorin said, stunned. It had happened in the blink of an eye, from the kick to messy, gruesome death. “That. That did not…”

“He reminded me a bit of Gollum there,” managed Bilbo through a tight throat. He was blotch-faced and trembling. “Wormtongue, I mean.”

“Probably why Frodo wished to save him,” agreed Thorin, and closed his eyes. A base and wretched end to a despicable and twisted little Man. “I think you must be a good influence upon me, dearest one. For even knowing as I do the wickedness he has wrought and the sorrows he has brought upon Eowyn and Theoden, I do feel pity for him.”

“Mm.” Bilbo nodded at Saruman’s body where it lay. “However, _that_ one I have no pity for in the slightest.”

“A Wizard should know better,” said Pippin, softly to himself.

“Barum,” Merry added, and folded his arms.

As they watched in the shocked aftermath, a grey mist gathered over the corpse of Saruman, rising into a column like smoke from a fire. It soon appeared as a pale shrouded figure many times larger than the great chimney, and loomed over the Hill. For a moment it wavered, looking to the West; but out of the West came a cold wind, and it bent away, and with a sigh dissolved into nothing.

“Oh, that is not righ’ at all!” exclaimed Cotton, and Thorin turned back to see the body shrivelling as though the work of thousands of years of desiccation  were revealed in seconds. It shrank and the skin became nothing more than rags upon a hideous skull. Frodo picked up a corner of the cloak and threw it over the face, and the crowd appeared to start breathing again at last.

“And that's the end of that,” said Sam. “A nasty end, and I wish I needn't have seen it; but it's a good riddance.”

“Bless you Sam, and may the hair on your toes never fall out,” muttered Thorin, still rather shaken.

“And the very last end of the War, I hope,” said Merry.

“I hope so,” said Frodo and sighed. “The very last stroke. But to think that it should fall here, at the very door of Bag End! Among all my hopes and fears at least I never expected that.”

“I shan't call it the end, till we've cleared up the mess,” said Sam gloomily. 'And that'll take a lot of time and work.”

“If I weren’t incorporeal,” Bilbo announced to all and nobody, “I’d be investigating just how much of my cellar is left. I think we could all use a stiff drink.”

Thorin scrubbed at his eyes and tried to erase the dreadful sight of Saruman’s corpse from his memory. “You did always have the best ideas,” he muttered. “A drink, and then I’m going back to bed. That was… not pleasant, and I am glad it is finally done and that I have seen it through. Durin’s beard, but I am relieved that Fíli missed it!”

“Shoo, sleepy head,” Bilbo. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll drink your share and be sure to snore extra loud,” Thorin promised him, and pressed a kiss to the air over Bilbo’s cheek. “In the morning, then.”

...

 

TBC

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **KHUZDUL**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Âzyungelê – love of all loves
> 
> Namadul – sister’s son
> 
> Nidoyel - boy of all boys
> 
> Unday - the greatest boy
> 
> Burushruka igbulul e. - I'm sorry (polite apology) (literally: "it pains me greatly")
> 
> Sansukhûl - (of) Pure and Perfect Sight
> 
> ...
> 
> Some dialogue adapted or taken from the chapter, 'The Scouring of the Shire' from _The Return of the King_.
> 
> hröa - body (Quenya)
> 
> (fëa was the name for Spirit. Elven spirits are tied to the world, even after death. This is the reason that they are re-embodied by Mandos after death. They are meant to exist as long as Arda does.)
> 
> Olórë Mallë - the path of dreams. Mortals can see Valinor in their dreams - the only way they can visit (apart from a handful of exceptions who could take the straight path). This is how Bilbo has been visiting Thorin in his sleep. Irmo (Lorien) is in charge of it. And Irmo is Námo’s brother. 
> 
> Mandos - He is usually known by this name. But his true, and less common name, is Námo. I just really like the idea that EVERYBODY calls him Mandos no matter how many times he has corrected them over the eons. His brother is Irmo (Lorien), the Vala of sleep and dreams, and he is married to Vairë the Weaver.
> 
> Aiwendil - Radagast. He was indeed a Maia of Yavanna.
> 
> The Dizzying Scarves - As I mentioned just then, Námo’s wife is Vairë, the weaver. :)))
> 
> The Doom of Men (and Hobbits) - they are not re-embodied, as the Elves are, because they are not eternally tied to the world. When they die, they go to a place that even Mandos does not know.
> 
> ...
> 
>  **Thank you so so much for reading and for your patience with me during what is a very difficult time for my family. I appreciate your patience, your lovely comments, and your well-wishes more than I can ever say. THANK YOU SO MUCH.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Just three chapters to go!**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Foolishness of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043148) by [Redring91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91)
  * [What To Do When You’re Bored (And Dead)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299100) by [Redring91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91)
  * [still round the corner there may wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344487) by [darth_stitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darth_stitch/pseuds/darth_stitch)
  * [Holy Holiday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387231) by [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/pseuds/badskippy)
  * [When Asked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411501) by [LadyKes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKes/pseuds/LadyKes)
  * [A Mine o' Diamonds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517315) by [kailthia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia)
  * [Doily Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563209) by [LadyKes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKes/pseuds/LadyKes)
  * [To Stand Like A Flag](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776712) by [voxmyriad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxmyriad/pseuds/voxmyriad)
  * [(In)Conveniently Invisible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1871724) by [Redring91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91)
  * [Punctuality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427305) by [FoxDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxDragon/pseuds/FoxDragon)
  * [An Even Greater Sunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735627) by [LadyKes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKes/pseuds/LadyKes)
  * [Onomatophobia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908619) by [Redring91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91)
  * [How to Thank Thorin Oakenshield](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104231) by [Oakwyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakwyrm/pseuds/Oakwyrm)
  * [Stone Cold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164192) by [PunsBulletsAndPointyThings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/pseuds/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings)
  * [Of Talking Toys and Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286445) by [beargirl1393](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/pseuds/beargirl1393)
  * [The Duties of Grandmothers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3402689) by [LadyKes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKes/pseuds/LadyKes)
  * [Stroke the Pig](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644175) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [The Mighty Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620298) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [A Heavy Burden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648021) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [Dain's First Pig](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655029) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [Pigs in Mahal's Halls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715966) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [The Carpal Tunnel of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3728989) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [Irresistible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753112) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [How to Disturb Your Child 101 v.2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783283) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [How to Disturb Your Child 101 v.1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3788365) by [lemoncannon (renioferebor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renioferebor/pseuds/lemoncannon)
  * [The Secret to Good Braids](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801724) by [lemoncannon (renioferebor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renioferebor/pseuds/lemoncannon)
  * [So Help Me, Mahal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829429) by [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil)
  * [One Last Goodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830770) by [Oakwyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakwyrm/pseuds/Oakwyrm)
  * [Start Today](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862309) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [The Talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873724) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [Before the Desolation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906925) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [[Podfic of] Sansûkh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906958) by [TheSansukhEnsemble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSansukhEnsemble/pseuds/TheSansukhEnsemble)
  * [My Home Is No Great Hall of Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948529) by [JEAikman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JEAikman/pseuds/JEAikman)
  * [Dance Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165029) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [The Kids Aren't Alright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359206) by [Scientist_Salarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scientist_Salarian/pseuds/Scientist_Salarian)
  * [Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372073) by [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal), [the_dragongirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dragongirl/pseuds/the_dragongirl)
  * [Forging Ithildin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628604) by [LaceFedora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaceFedora/pseuds/LaceFedora)
  * [Until The World Has Ended](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650306) by [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil)
  * [Loss That Burns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880344) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [Kherumel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919905) by [applepieisworthit (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/applepieisworthit), [flamesburnonthemountainside (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/flamesburnonthemountainside)
  * [Braids](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348453) by [applepieisworthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applepieisworthit/pseuds/applepieisworthit)
  * [A Question of Intention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429936) by [Talonfeather (Maysun)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maysun/pseuds/Talonfeather)
  * [Snow Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430740) by [Riz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riz/pseuds/Riz)
  * [Ghostly Affairs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801866) by [Setari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setari/pseuds/Setari)
  * [Namo's Halls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148536) by [LearnToShareFeanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnToShareFeanor/pseuds/LearnToShareFeanor)
  * [Bubbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6370363) by [Rina_san28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rina_san28/pseuds/Rina_san28)
  * [A Picture for the Larder Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100662) by [Eisfaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisfaerie/pseuds/Eisfaerie)
  * [Carefully, Carefully with the Plates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7939321) by [Setari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setari/pseuds/Setari)
  * [Her Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125276) by [Kairyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kairyn/pseuds/Kairyn)
  * [Rules of the Halls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349829) by [Kairyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kairyn/pseuds/Kairyn)
  * [thinning veil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078580) by [dame66](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame66/pseuds/dame66)
  * [Little Pebbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10149929) by [beargirl1393](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/pseuds/beargirl1393)
  * [azaghîth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12029325) by [DarthLivion (DistantShenanigans)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantShenanigans/pseuds/DarthLivion)




End file.
